Accused
by Teenwitch
Summary: Accusations are made. Loyalties will be tested. House and his team attend a conference in Las Vegas, and he is accused of murder. CSIcrossover.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** House M.D. and CSI: Crime Scene Investigation are the property of their respective owners and affiliates. Not me.  
**Summary:** Accusations are made. Loyalties will be tested. House and his team attend a conference in Las Vegas, and he is accused of murder. CSI-crossover. 

**Author's Note: **This is a crossover between my two favourite shows, House and CSI, though it will be dominantly House, which is why it is posted in this section. (Though I'm toying with the idea of making one chapter House, one chapter CSI, depending on your thoughts). This is a very odd, very fun experiment. I have no idea what kind of reception this fic will get, and whether or not the shift from the world of House to the world of CSI will be seamless and believable. But it'll be fun to try, right?

**Author's Note 2:** Potential for CSI spoilers up to the end of the last season. I have seen House up to the episode 'Histories' and after the feedback for my last fic, I have attempted to make as many revisions as possible on my characterisations. I apologise for any inaccuracies.

To clear up any doubts, I also want to make it clear that I am a House/Cameron and Grissom/Sara shipper and these pairings will be making themselves known in further chapters.

Okay, now I've finished with that long spiel, enjoy, and let me know what you think!

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**Accused**

**Chapter one**

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Sure, he'd been expecting some kind of karmic retribution for agreeing to attend a conference in Vegas for the sole reason that it was _in_ Vegas, but nothing of this magnitude.

Cuddy had persuaded him to attend the Annual Conference of Diagnostic Medicine in Las Vegas, Nevada, with the promise that it would ensure his freedom from clinic duty for a full week. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on how much they were annoying him that week, he was asked to invite two of his staff to attend. He chose Chase and Cameron; Chase, because he had no doubt the boy had grown up with experience in similar professional situations; and Cameron, because she was universally well liked, and her attendance would at least temporarily appease Cuddy, who had entrusted 'the reputation of the hospital' on his shoulders.

Riiiight. She really didn't give him a lot of credit.

Foreman took it as a personal insult that he was left behind to hold up the home front, just as House had expected him too. His frustration only amused him, and he conveniently failed to mention that he had left him in charge because he trusted him to run things smoothly, should a case miraculously make itself known in the next five days. He rarely encouraged his team because that was not the way to produce capable doctors. If they wanted softening up, they should have thought about other careers. Wilson had likewise promised he would pitch in if needed, but House doubted that would be necessary.

The flight from the Trenton-Mercer Airport to the Las Vegas Mccarran International Airport went off without a hitch, and considering his past experiences with airlines, he should have expected some kind of payback for getting off so easily. But, he didn't, and he sat in his seat with his headphones on, steadfastly ignoring both Cameron and Chase beside him as the rock tunes of the Who, the Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin blasted his ears.

They landed in Las Vegas at 5:30pm, and he fazed out Chase and Cameron's mingled twattering about the city as they neared their hotel. They had reservations at the Four Seasons_. Trust those old fogeys to pick the only hotel on the Strip without a damn casino._

They stood on the sidewalk outside, in a collective moment of admiration or criticism, depending on the party, taking in the surrounding glitter and bustle of the Strip before entering the hotel.

"Ah, Las Vegas", House observed fondly; drawing in a deep breath, cane thwacking the ground at his feet. "You can practically just smell the sin, can't you?"

"You must feel right at home", Cameron murmured cheekily.

The immunologist quietly observed the bustling area around them as House forced Chase to head up to the front desk to collect their room keys. He leant heavily on his cane, feeling the full brunt of his usual pain after such excessive travelling. He riffled in his pocket, popping a Vicodin in his mouth and praying for its numbing effects. Cameron, meanwhile, was riveted with a sort of childlike fascination to the imposing lobby, and he had no doubt this was her first time in the city of sin. It would have been against all laws of fairies and nature otherwise.

He too, glanced around, but with much less animation. He spotted several stuffy, suited men no doubt in attendance for the conference, and he thanked God Cameron had not convinced him to change out of the Stones t-shirt under his suede coat. His relief was short-lived, however, when he glimpsed a familiar figure making his way from the row of elevator banks on their right.

"Oh, crap", he muttered, wondering if he could dive behind a nearby fern in time to save himself.

No such luck.

"Dr. House", a booming voice erupted pleasantly. Cameron's head spun, blinking at the figure who approached them with such energy, unable to associate the enthusiasm behind his name.

"I'll give you fifty bucks to lift your shirt and create a distraction while I make a break for the elevators", he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. Cameron shot him a look, straightening as the man neared and came to a halt in front of them.

"House", he repeated, smiling widely. "What a surprise. I had no idea you would be attending this year".

"Neither did I", House answered, with no small amount of sarcasm.

The man seemed oblivious to it, a feat Cameron thought quite impossible. "How's the hospital? Cuddy still running things?"

"Oh yeah, she's a slavedriver", House replied, and Cameron had no doubt he was entirely serious.

He wore a blue pinstriped suit, an outfit even she had to cringe at, one that begged for House's ridicule. The bitter diagnostician, however, remained uncharacteristically silent. The man was several years older than him, with grey at his temples and wrinkles tugging at his eyes, but they looked like wrinkles from laughter rather than wrinkles from age. Cameron estimated him to be in his early fifties, and the robust, jovial older man appeared to be genuinely pleased to see House, a fondness she had rarely seen in anyone but Wilson, who hid it behind offhanded repartee much more on House's level.

He turned his curious attention to Cameron, lifting an eyebrow at her expectantly. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your lovely young colleague, House?"

House fairly rolled his eyes, waving a hand in Cameron's general direction. "Allison Cameron", he muttered. "Dr. Paul Goodard."

"Ah. A member of your elite, handpicked team, I presume?"

House was annoyed at the admiration he directed her way, grunting an affirmative. It was difficult for men not to notice her beauty, as House himself had used to his advantage many times- when a case called for that extra dressing. However, Goodard was old enough to be her father, and he was one of those few people who had the ability to completely ignore House's barbs—thus causing his unending irritation.

Goodard extended a hand, which Cameron graciously accepted, blinking at House oddly. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Cameron. You must be thrilled to be learning from the esteemed Dr. House".

"Oh, ah, yes. I am. It's very nice to meet you too", she responded politely, unable to think of anything else to say, wondering what kind of bizarre fantasy version of House this man appeared to have.

On the other hand, she couldn't understand why House was holding back with his sarcasm. Maybe Goodard finally had the antidote for dealing with it; ignore it completely.

They made a few more minutes small talk before Goodard departed, and House shot daggers at his back as Chase reapproached them.

He frowned; eyes flitting curiously in the direction they were both staring. "Who was that?"

"No one", House answered shortly.

Cameron lifted an eyebrow, intrigued by House's reaction. "It didn't look like it to me".

"Well, I could see why the pinstriped suit would fool you, but he's no one important. An old colleague".

Chase cleared his throat, attempting to clear the unexpected tension. "I've got our rooms".

House shot her one last withering look, blithely snatching the keycard from Chase's outstretched hand. "Great. Now I can raid the mini bar and make the two of you look slightly more appealing. If Cuddy's springing for this, we might as well make it a party."

Cameron frowned, disapproval evident. "Remember that you promised Dr. Cuddy you would go to the mixer tonight."

House tapped the tip of the card impatiently against his chin, annoyed that she clearly felt it her need to play babysitter for the night. "Well, lucky for us, big brother is no longer watching. Or big momma. Whatever. Unless either of you plan on tattling, she just doesn't have to know about this. Later, kids".

They watched him limp off, exchanging a sideways glance before following him to the elevators.

House retreated quickly to his room, welcoming its solace and leaning against the door in place of his cane. It was easy to dissuade his co-workers with the excuse of avoiding all social activity, when in reality his leg hurt like hell and he needed to rest it. He resented showing any sign of weakness, and his physical shortcomings were enough of one without drawing further attention to them. He'd prefer them to think of him as a lazy, antisocial bastard than a man in pain.

His reprieve was short-lived, however, as a gentle, hesitant rapping sounded at his door an hour later. He groaned, wincing against his palm as he rose from the armchair by his bed, interrupted in the midst of intent channel surfing.

Cameron stood uncertainly on the other side, which was hardly a surprise. He had almost considered leaving her in Princeton, knowing the confines they would be in over the next five days, but his only hesitation was the fact that she lacked the confidence to run the Diagnostics Department in his absence. She was young, beautiful, and for whatever reason, she seemed to like him. It annoyed the hell out of him, and he wasn't sure if it was because he was simply too bitter to like her, or because she was a real temptation, and an unneeded complication in his already messy life.

"We wanted to know if you were coming down".

He leant against the doorjamb, blinking at her irritably. Any fantasies he had envisioned involving her appearance at his door usually included much less clothing, and had not started quite like this.

"Well, you see, there's bed calling my name a lot more loudly than you are", he answered dryly. "Of course, that _could_ change…"

She folded her arms. "You are not desperate enough to proposition me yet".

"Yet?" he repeated, quirking an eyebrow. "So the lady has hope?"

She flicked her hair behind her ear, a sign of mounting impatience. Without her crisp white lab coat, she was clad in a professional black suit jacket and tight fitting slacks. The symbolism of the black did not make it past him, and he shifted irritably. Virginal white was really much more her colour. He pursed his lips, vaguely wondering if Cuddy would be more tempted to fire him if she knew what kind of dark thoughts he was having about his much younger employee.

Cameron continued to stare at him with her wide grey eyes, and he got the impression— as he did during most of his interactions with her— that refusing her would be like hurting a puppy.

"Fine", he snapped shortly, turning to flick the TV off and snatch up his cane. Cameron blinked; obviously surprised it had been so easy to persuade him. He sighed. The prospect of numbing himself to Vicodin or alcohol- or both- was starting to look far too remote.

However, Cameron continued to hover in the doorway when he moved forward, eyeing him over uncertainly. He glared back at her when she didn't move from his path, patience reaching its limit. "_What_?"

"It's… sort of a semi-formal event."

Oh, she was definitely on his last nerve. "Egad! You mean my Stones shirt won't _impress_ people?"

She rolled her eyes, looking faintly agitated. The girl really needed to find some kind of hobby. "Dr. Cuddy won't be very happy if you don't make a good impression".

"What, did she give you a license to dress me?"

She sighed, but she looked awkward. He inwardly smirked. He enjoyed making her feel uncomfortable.

"Do you like making things this difficult?"

She could make him go down there, but she was not about to win this battle. "Not so much as I enjoy the cute little frown on your face when you get mad. And you're the one making things difficult."

Said frown deepened considerably, but she looked suitably resigned. "Fine."

"Fine", he repeated, satisfied with her frustration.

The conference hall was a rustle of pretentious activity, with a string quartet in the corner and a white swathed table lined with refreshments hugging the wall. Cameron wasn't kidding about the dress code, but House didn't feel mildly bothered. He swung his cane by his side as he stopped in place, wondering when the vacant bar in the corner was going to start serving. Cameron was also quiet, and he was sure she was intimidated by the collective mass of such renowned diagnosticians.

House had to admit he had could understand her idealism. She was at the start of her career, and before her was a world of opportunities. The people in this room were solid proof of the things she could accomplish, and he gave her the moment of awed silence, scanning the crowd for Chase's familiar droopy haircut.

He spotted him a moment later, guarding the refreshment table and looking completely fascinated by the people around him. He blended into the crowd with effortless ease and comfort, and House had no doubt Cuddy would rest easier tonight, knowing at least two of her representatives were making a positive impression.

He, on the other hand, could not care less. His participation at these functions might once have been met with endless enthusiasm, decades ago. Now he was tired, crabby, and missing The OC. His dedication to the ostentatious side of his career had faded long ago. These people were here for one reason only, and it wasn't for a mingled 'we save lives, oh happy day' kind of celebration. They were here to slap each other on the back and make a lot of self-congratulatory speeches. That was it.

"Wow", Chase murmured as they neared his side, fingering his glass with vague attention. "This is impressive".

"Oh no, he's going to start salivating".

Chase glanced at him, so accustomed to his jabs they merely rolled off his back. "Have you worked with any of these people?"

His awe must have addled his brain, if he was expressing his curiosity to House, of all people. He shrugged, glancing around with a noticeable disinterest. "A few".

"Apparently Dr. Michael Windsor is scheduled to talk at tomorrow morning's session", Cameron offered, accepting the glass of champagne House mutely held in her direction before retrieving one for himself.

"The Harvard professor?" Chase asked, eyes widening eagerly. "He's renowned for his theories on Huntington's disease. I used to read his papers in medical school all the time".

"Oh, down boy", House interrupted sarcastically. "I'm sure he'll sign your stethoscope if you ask him _really_ nicely".

"Look, here comes that doctor you don't like", Cameron said suddenly.

House blinked, glancing at her a moment. "Which one?"

He followed the direction she pointed, and rolled his eyes at the sight of Paul Goodard. Oh. _That_ one. Thankfully he appeared not to have seen them, and dissolved into the crowd, a patch on his head shining briefly in the overhead light.

Chase glanced at House sideways. "Why don't you like him? I mean, apart from the obvious fact that you are you. He looked like a nice enough bloke to me".

House tipped the glass of champagne to his lips in response, wincing at the sickly sweet taste. "Because he's an ass", he said flatly. "And about as credible as one. Since when do I have to have a reason not to like people?"

"Point taken", Chase muttered.

His two companions eventually melded off into the crowd, fulfilling Cuddy's orders like good little up-and-coming doctors, and House hung back, retreating to the bar when a server started taking drinks.

He nursed his cold scotch against his side, thumping his cane against his left leg with the other, surveying his surroundings. Five days of interacting with other doctors might as well have been five days in hell. He could barely remember why Cuddy's offer looked so appealing in comparison to this, and wondered how long he would be missed if he slipped out to a neighbouring casino.

He spotted Chase and Cameron talking to a diagnostician he vaguely recognised, and felt a vague sense of pleasure when he noticed how well they were responding to him. At least nobody would be able to question his ability to teach them.

He felt a presence at his elbow, and glanced around, inwardly grimacing when he realised Paul Goodard had managed to sneak up to him.

"Goodard", he acknowledged, taking another sip from his drink, wondering if he could make him disappear with the power of his will.

Goodard ordered his own drink, smiling serenely, placing his elbows on the smooth bar behind them. "I have to say, you've done a fine job with those doctors of yours, House. I just had a very stimulating conversation with that young man a few minutes ago".

"Thanks", House grumbled.

"It's good to see that you've been able to get around your… physical disability".

House shifted, glancing at him with an extremely irate frown. "Yeah well, it quashed my dreams to baseball stardom, so I guess I just had to settle".

Goodard frowned. "Now House, you know I didn't mean it like that…"

"Right. Of course you didn't."

"I just meant that I think it's very admirable that you've been able to move on with your life. Not many of us could, after…"

"Becoming a cripple?" House supplied, slamming his glass back on the bar and swivelling his cane to face Goodard fully. "Well thanks for the upper, Goodard. It's been swell and motivational and all, but I have rounds to make. You know Dr. Cuddy. She's always on us to keep pushing that envelope".

He took a final swig from his glass, turning from the patronising doctor and striding off with a skilful twirl of his cane.

Until twenty minutes later, he didn't realise just how many people had witnessed that particular exchange of his long and boring night.

He didn't realise that because of it, he would soon become suspect numero uno in a murder investigation, either.

_TBC…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **See chapter one.

**Accused  
****Chapter two**

The Four Seasons was bustling with the activity of frantic doctors and hotel staff, and Sara Sidle took in the sign posted at the front of the lobby with a puzzled frown. The 12th Annual Conference of Diagnostic Medicine. She got the impression doctors were supposed to be well versed in death, but the atmosphere around her was buzzing with an underlying current of panic, and she supposed seeing a fellow colleague in that particular state was a different matter entirely.

She shifted the weight of her heavy kit against her side, glimpsing the crime scene tape margining off the onlooking guests, in the majestic hallway separating the conference hall from the dining room. The body was a fifty-year-old male, positioned on his back with his eyes closed, blood caking the back of his skull and the cream carpet beneath him; a clear indication of blunt force trauma.

Her supervisor stood beside Detective Brass at the edge of the tape, engrossed in a quiet conference. She ducked under it, dodging members of the crowd with annoyance before depositing her kit carefully beside the prone body.

"Hey guys", she said, announcing her presence to the two men, who turned to include her in their conversation. "What've we got?"

"Paul Goodard", Brass supplied, gesturing to the body as David hunched over it, inserting a thin thermometer into the liver to determine time of death. "A visiting doctor from New York. Apparently there's a conference in town".

"The Annual Conference of Diagnostic Medicine", Sara offered. She shrugged at their blank looks. "It was on the door".

Brass shook his head. "Right. Well, anyway, everybody was in the ballroom. Apparently our doctors had a little social gathering to get to know everyone at the conference. That means there are no witnesses. According to a member of the waiting staff, she came out and found him here, rolled him on his back, and called 9-1-1".

"Great", Sara muttered, rolling her eyes. Just what they needed. A compromised crime scene.

"Yeah. He was last seen alive about twenty minutes before he was found."

"Time of death was approximately 8:00pm", David spoke up, rising to his feet.

Grissom nodded, coming out of his contemplative silence long enough to thank the coroner. "Thank you, David".

Brass's gaze was drawn somewhere beyond the crime scene tape, where an officer was gesturing to him. "Well, I'll leave you guys to it".

Sara smiled at him wanly, watching his stout form as he struggled to make his way through the crowd. At his gruff shout they all quickly parted for him, a perfectly synchronised movement that was almost comical, and she had to look away to remind herself of the gravity of the situation.

Grissom was watching her, and she lifted an eyebrow at him, silently waiting for him to instruct her on her next move. The intensity of his gaze made goosebumps rise down her back, and she forced herself not to wonder what he was thinking.

"Would you mind taking pictures of the crowd before starting on the scene? If the murder occurred so recently, it's possible—"

"That the killer is still here", she concluded, finishing his sentence with an ease that came from years of practice, lifting her camera from the top of her kit. "Got it".

She directed her attention to the surrounding spectators, who were watching the scene amid a mingled rasp of high-pitched whispering and wide-eyed alarm. She glanced down at the camera display, subtly taking several shots, fixing on individual faces.

Grissom started to collect trace from the body, and she paced the perimeter, collecting minute fibres and hairs from the carpet. She hated processing scenes in hotels along the Strip. So many visitors crowded their walls on any given day that finding evidence relevant to their case was near impossible. And unlike Grissom, she did not have the ability to block out the curious sounds of the surrounding people. Working in the presence of a crowd was distracting. After all, it was a well-known fact that CSIs worked _behind_ the scenes when it came to putting criminals away. She was not a face for publicity or press conferences, and she could never quite get used to being the centre of attention.

She sealed her final bag of evidence, displeased with what they had been able to collect. Thankfully, the crowd had started to filter back into the hall the moment the body was carted away on a gurney. Sara frowned at this level of morbid fascination, holding the lid of her pen between her teeth as she labelled the bag, and dropping it swiftly into her kit.

Brass approached her, looking uncharacteristically harried. His tie hung loosely around his neck, and his features were red and flushed; from exertion or irritation, she wasn't quite sure. "Welcome to Narcissus Anonymous, 2005", he declared brusquely. "If I have to speak to _one_ more doctor—"

"They can't be narcissistic _and_ anonymous, Brass", Sara answered vaguely, studying the miserable amount of evidence in her collection.

Brass rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the memo. You sound more and more like Grissom everyday".

She decided to ignore that observation, unable to determine if it was flattering or insulting, tucking her hair behind one ear and giving him her full attention. "Got anything interesting?"

"Amongst all the medical mumbo jumbo I couldn't understand? Sure, I got something. Apparently our good doctor Paul was pretty popular in his field. Everyone liked him. Everyone, except a doctor…" He paused, consulting his notepad. "…uh, Gregory House, who according to general consensus, 'doesn't like anybody'. They were seen having an argument before Goodard disappeared from the mixer".

Sara tilted an eyebrow. "That sounds suspicious. Any idea where this Dr. House is?"

Brass jerked his head over one shoulder. "He's in the crowd over there, with the people who saw Goodard last. Should be an interesting conversation. I've never heard a doctor described quite like this one."

Brass's ambiguous comments peaked Sara's own curiosity, and she followed him under the tape towards the doctor in question.

This section of the lobby was cordoned off into a pleasant lounge setting, with elegant burgundy sofas positioned in stylish, circular patterns. An impressive chandelier cast muted light over the assembled group of disgruntled doctors. Obviously, they were unused to being the ones kept waiting. Sara, whose own childhood experiences with hospitals was a vivid recollection, couldn't help but feel a brief feeling of satisfaction at their obvious discomfort.

At the group of sofas Brass had indicated sat three figures, somewhat set apart from those around them. The first was a young man, who had long blonde hair and sat stiffly in his chair, setting his intense stare firmly at a spot somewhere on the floor. Beside him was a woman, roughly of the same age, with long dark brown locks and extremely pretty features. She looked nervous, and perched uneasily on the edge of her seat, wringing her hands together in her lap. Sara made a mental note of their responses, turning her attention to the remaining figure.

Slouched in the sofa opposite them was an older man, clearly their superior, with a permanent scowl fixed on his rough features. There was no doubt in her mind that this was Dr. Gregory House. Unlike the immaculate professional attire of his two colleagues, he wore a bright blue Rolling Stones t-shirt under his suede jacket, and rolling impatiently between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand was a slender wooden cane.

He glanced up at the sound of their approach, and she was struck by the unexpected sight of his powerful blue eyes, uncomfortable under their scrutiny. Beneath their sharpness she sensed a number of things, and foremost was a keen natural intelligence.

Good murders were hard to come by without that particular trait.

"Dr. House?" Brass spoke up, halting before the three doctors. "I'm Detective Jim Brass, and this is Sara Sidle, from the Las Vegas Crime Lab. We'd like to ask you a few questions".

"Goody", House muttered. He lazed idly back in his chair, and looked unequivocally bored.

Sara was taken aback by his reaction. In her professional opinion, potential suspects acted in one of two ways. They were either incredibly nervous, or incredibly defensive. This man was neither, and his indifference was intriguing. Brass, on the other hand, merely frowned, obviously unimpressed with his incongruous display. "Would you mind telling us what happened tonight, as far as you can remember?"

"Anything you might think is relevant", Sara added, folding her arms.

They had fallen into their familiar routine of good cop, bad cop, and she thought she saw the glimmer of a smirk on House's roguish features.

"Let's start by what you're doing in Las Vegas", Brass suggested glibly, flipping open his notes.

House blinked at him like he was slow. "Well, I would have thought all the doctors prancing around the place was kind of obvious. Maybe that's just me".

"We're from the diagnostics department at the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital", the young woman spoke up, giving House an incredulous look. "We're here for five days for the conference."

Brass glanced at her with an expression akin to relief, sensing he would, for the time being, get more of a response from her. "And you are…?"

"Allison Cameron", she supplied politely. The man next to her shifted upright. "Robert Chase", he offered civilly.

"Did either of you speak to Dr. Goodard tonight?"

They exchanged a glance, nodding hesitantly. "We met him today".

"Did you get the impression he was troubled at all? That maybe he suspected someone intended to harm him?" Sara asked.

Cameron shook her head. "No. He seemed fine".

"We have several witnesses who claim they saw Dr. House in an argument with him", Brass continued. "Did either of you see this?"

"Hey, sitting right here", House grumbled.

Chase cleared his throat. "We didn't see anything. We were speaking to another doctor in the hall".

"All right", Brass said, sighing when he realised they were not going to provide any useful information. "Would you mind giving us a few minutes alone with Dr. House?"

Chase rose to his feet, clearly relieved at this dismissal. Cameron stood much more hesitantly, glancing back at House with uncertainty clouding her features. House waved a hand at her impatiently. "Oh, relax, Dr. Cameron. Let the grown-ups have their talk now".

She rolled her eyes at his condescending tone, turning to go. Despite the remark, Sara saw a flash of worry in her eyes as she strode past, and she wondered if House really spoke to everyone like that, or if it was his way of trying to assure her.

"Nice way you have with your employees, Dr. House", Brass observed, watching the pair disappear into the crowd migrating to the next floor.

House shrugged. "I think my boss of the year award got lost in the mail."

Brass rolled his eyes as he and Sara took Chase and Cameron's vacant seats. "People claim they saw you arguing moments before Dr. Goodard disappeared from the conference", he started abruptly. "Would you care to explain that?"

House blinked. "The dog ate my homework?"

Brass's face twisted into a heavy scowl. "Do you want to see what I can do to you if you keep up like this? Unless you want to really try my patience, you'll answer the question right now".

House rolled his eyes heavenward. "I don't know what you expect me to say about it. He annoyed me, I left, and then some waitress is squawking that's he's dead in the hallway. You'd think with a room full of doctors that at least one of them would have started CPR before that. Of course, he did look pretty dead by then".

Brass glanced at Sara doubtfully. "You don't sound very upset by that."

"Should I? Am I supposed to pretend that the death of someone I didn't like disturbs me? If I _caused_ it I'm pretty sure the legal consequences would be disturbing, but that's mostly because my boss gets really cranky when I kill people in her hospital."

Sara didn't know whether to be impressed or astounded by this man's utter honesty. His blunt lack of tact was disconcerting.

"What was your argument about?"

House shrugged. "Nothing important. He annoyed me, I told him so. I know detective work is sketchy, but I'm sure you need more than that to actually arrest me".

Brass's brow lowered into a heavy frown. "Where were you the time of Goodard's death?"

"I went up to my room. All the shouting brought me down again".

"Can anyone confirm that?"

"No. I watched MaGyver the other night. I was trying something out. You know, it's a lot harder to be stealthy with a cane in the way. It ruins the whole image".

Sara resisted a smirk; unable to help her amusement at how easily he managed to push Brass's buttons.

"Okay", Brass said, snapping his notepad shut, glaring at House irritably. "If we have any more questions we'll let you know".

"I can't wait", House said with mock sincerity, rising to his feet and limping in the direction of the hall.

Sara glanced at Brass, mutely deciding not to comment on the frustration roiling off his frame, following him back to the central crime scene which was considerably less crowded than before. She felt a presence at her back, and turned her head slightly to see Grissom standing behind her.

"Is that the suspect you and Brass were questioning?" he asked, face impassive, eyes following the retreating figure of Dr. House.

Sara frowned slightly, finding it difficult to concentrate with his breath against her neck. "Uh… yeah. Why?"

Grissom seemed completely oblivious to the effect he was having on her, speaking lowly. "His cane is the exact shape of the contusion on Goodard's skull. It could be our murder weapon".

0000000000000000000000000

"I can't believe this".

Chase paced the length of her room as Cameron sat on her bed, one leg folded under her petite frame, expression troubled.

"You can't believe that House is being questioned for murder, or you can't believe that it took this long?"

Chase shot her a look, disarmed by the uncharacteristically bitter remark, stopping mid-stride. "I meant the former, but that's a very good point".

"We should call Dr. Cuddy", Cameron said, sounding unhappy at the prospect. "She'll want to know what's going on."

"Now hang on", Chase protested, frowning down at her. "Nothing's happened yet. House is just being asked a few routine questions. We shouldn't get her into a panic over this. You know what her reaction would be".

"Maybe we should call Wilson", she suggested.

Chase ran a hand through his hair, loosening the emerald green tie around his neck. "Are you sure we shouldn't leave that up to House?"

Cameron fixed him with a square look. "Do you really think House will tell him the truth?"

"He doesn't lie".

"No, but he'll gloss over the severity of the situation. Wilson deserves to know what's going on. Maybe he can decide whether or not we should tell Dr. Cuddy".

"Talking about me again? How sweet". House's gravelly voice cut into the room, as he appeared around the corner separating the door from the suite. Cameron ignored the fact that he had waltzed uninvited into her room; apparently they had taken on an open door policy like that at the hospital.

"What did they say?" she asked, lifting her eyes to his worriedly.

House tapped his cane impatiently on the carpet, muffling the dull thud as his two employees eyed him intently.

"I was expecting a bit more excitement for my first police interrogation. I thought they could at least cuff me."

"So nothing happened?"

House gave them both an irritable look. "What, did you think they would arrest me? Sorry to disappoint you. They wanted to know what our argument was about. Clearly they don't know me very well".

"What _was_ your argument about?" Chase asked.

"Oh, he insulted my honour and I insulted his. It was all very medieval. Now I've given you tonight's update; I'm going to bed." He swivelled back in the direction of the door, but paused halfway, glancing back at them vaguely. "Oh, and if you're going to call Wilson, call him at the hospital. His wife just hates fielding his calls after hours".

He left them staring after him, both far more worried about this latest development than he seemed to be. Of course, with House, you never really knew.

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_TBC..._


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **See chapter one.  
**Author's Note: **Just saw 'Detox'. _DAMN,_ House rocks.  
Thanks for the tips and comments, guys. I'll try to take them all on board.

**Accused  
****Chapter three**

House subtly studied Cameron as he entered the dining hall, taking note of the low slump in her shoulders and the dark circles lining her normally vibrant eyes. She obviously hadn't slept well. He hadn't slept well either, but he always looked like crap, so it was unlikely people would be able to tell the difference.

Chase was nowhere to be seen, and he maneuvered his way through the maze of tables where his fellow doctors were involved in animated breakfast conversation, obviously still recounting the events of the night before. Even if Cameron hadn't called Wilson – which, he suspected, she had – news of the murder would have spread to the hospital by now. Paul Goodard was a renowned diagnostician, and his loss would have been noticed in the medical community. Gossip was going to be rife with speculation about the murderer's identity, and despite his indifferent behaviour, he couldn't help but feel uneasy with the questioning the Las Vegas police had directed his way. Clearly more than a few of his colleagues had pointed them in his direction. You had to love the loyalty.

"Morning", he grumbled, sliding into the chair opposite Cameron, who was jabbing inattentively at her half-eaten pancakes. He lifted an eyebrow, slinging his jacket over the back of his chair and resting his cane beside it. "Well, aren't you a ray of sunshine today?" he observed dryly.

"I didn't sleep well", she muttered, giving up on her pancakes altogether and dropping her fork onto her plate.

House frowned. "Yeah, those Egyptian cotton sheets are really hell on the skin".

He should have known she was going to be sensitive about this. Her added penchant for compassion often meant that she cared more about his problems than he did, and this was clearly going to be one of those cases. He really wished she wouldn't care so much. He wanted to tell her he wasn't worth the trouble.

He also wanted to reassure her, but it wasn't really a skill he possessed. He glanced up at the buffet, where more than a few chattering doctors were gathered in line, then impatiently down at her unfinished meal. "Are you going to finish that?"

Mutely, she pushed her plate across the table. He immediately speared a piece of pancake with his own fork, relishing the sugary taste of maple syrup and chewing happily. "Where's Chase?" he asked between mouthfuls, as if just noticing the intensivist's absence.

Cameron sighed, tapping her fingers vaguely on the table. "Trying Wilson again. We couldn't contact him last night."

"Ah. Must be why I haven't received any screeching messages on my voicemail yet. Cuddy still doesn't know".

"We thought Wilson might be the best one to tell her".

House smirked. "Fobbing it off to the middle man. Nice".

She blinked up at him, grey eyes squinting in the morning light. "Aren't you at least a _little_ bit worried? Haven't you heard what people are talking about this morning? They think you had something to do with it. I don't think you realise how many people saw you two in an argument last night."

House furrowed his brow. "So what? I argued with the guy. That doesn't mean anything. And in case you haven't noticed, people are always talking like that around me. I just attract attention that way".

She rolled her eyes, typically uptight. "You're not taking this seriously."

"Should I be? What am I supposed to do? He was a parasite, like plaque or a bad hair day. I didn't care enough about Goodard to kill him."

Cameron looked horrified. "I never said I thought you did it".

He stared at her calmly, enjoying her dismay a little too much, glimpsing Chase over her shoulder as he started in their direction. "Well, just so we're clear."

"Hey", Chase offered in greeting, sliding his plate of eggs onto the table before taking the seat beside Cameron. "I called Wilson. He's delivering the news to Cuddy as we speak".

House smirked. "You should have told him to take a picture. Something like that deserves to be captured permanently. The look on her face would be worth at least a week of clinic duty". He wrinkled his nose as he reconsidered this. "Well, _nothing's_ really worth a week of clinic duty".

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"Dr. Cuddy?"

Wilson rapped gently on the glass door to the Dean of Medicine's office, resigning himself to the coming conversation.

He could hardly believe it when Chase told him. Paul Goodard had worked briefly at the Princeton-Plainsboro hospital when House had been perhaps at his most bitter, following the infarction. He was an incessantly cheerful man, a favourite among staff and patients alike, and, unlike Cameron— who attempted to be nice to House because she saw the good person underneath— Goodard's brand of condescending niceness came from a superiority complex that was difficult to place. Few could see it. House, insightful as he was, and being on the receiving end of some particularly patronizing remarks concealed behind concern for his health, was one of them.

Wilson hadn't particularly liked the man himself, but news of his death came as a shock. What was even more of a shock was the fact that he had been murdered, and that House had been briefly questioned on that fact.

Cuddy glanced up from her desk, blinking at him expectantly. He had known her for a long time, and her no-nonsense exterior was off-putting if you weren't familiar with it. She clashed with House endlessly, and was one of the few people who could meet his sarcastic remarks with equal fervour. But despite their seeming facade of hostility, he knew they really respected and admired one another, and their relationship was a unique, but secretly fond one. She would not be pleased with this news.

"Dr. Wilson", she said, gesturing him inside. "What can I do for you?"

They proceeded with formalities despite their history, and he was relieved to have the opportunity to hide behind temporary pleasantries. But it wasn't to last.

"Uh, I'd like a moment to talk to you about… something." He sighed, striding into the room and sliding into the chair opposite her desk. Her office was warm and inviting, and she was diminutive behind her large mahogany desk, but he found the whole situation extremely intimidating.

"Okay, go ahead".

"I heard from… Dr. Chase this morning".

Cuddy lifted an eyebrow. "Oh _great_. What has he done now?"

So much for preamble. He shifted in his seat, frowning slightly. "Well, according to Chase, he's been questioned for… murder".

Cuddy blinked at him, hardly moving in her chair. There was a nervous twitch in her eye he wasn't quite sure she was aware of, and he waited for the inevitable explosion.

"He's been in Las Vegas for TWELVE HOURS!"

"I'm sure it's nothing to get worried about…"

"Nothing to get worried about?" she repeated disbelievingly. "Are we talking about the same person here? This is House. He's like a Doberman without a leash, or a bull in a china shop! I've got him out of some pretty drastic situations in the past, but this is—"

"Come on", he interrupted tersely, scoffing openly. "You don't really think he's capable of murder?"

Cuddy frowned. "I didn't say that. Of _course_ he could never murder anyone. He's a doctor for God's sake. He's… _House_. If he hasn't thrashed anyone with his cane yet he's never going to. I'm just saying that the authorities probably aren't going to see it that way. They don't know him like we do, and he's not exactly…"

"The nicest person?" Wilson finished, folding his arms.

Cuddy shrugged helplessly. "Well, yeah. That's more than an understatement".

"Well, lucky for us, he happens to have about the nicest person we both know with him right now. I'm sure Cameron can keep him in line for the next few days. That _is_ why you agreed to let two of his staff go, isn't it? You knew who he was going to leave behind".

Cuddy lifted an eyebrow. "Please. Did you really think I was going to let him go along to Las Vegas for a week without proper reinforcements?"

Wilson smirked faintly; slumping back in his chair as he contemplated the predicament his friend appeared to have gotten himself into. "I do underestimate you sometimes".

"Everyone does".

"Well, they were only briefly questioning him. I'm sure it won't go any further than that. There's no need to bring any damage control in yet".

"Right", said Cuddy, looking entirely unconvinced. "I'm sure it'll be fine".

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"Well, you're right about the cause of death", Doc Robbins announced summarily, as Grissom and Sara joined him in the morgue. The chill of its walls circled them as soon as they entered, and the clinical smell of antiseptic was almost overpowering as it swiftly assailed them.

Paul Goodard had been stitched up, but the jagged y-incision still stood out prominently on his chest. He looked impossibly pale against the steel table, and the white sheet covering his lower half was a barely discernible shade lighter than his skin.

"Blunt force trauma?" Sara reiterated curiously, glancing down at the prone form briefly before returning her attention to the medical examiner.

Robbins nodded, indicating the back of his skull with one gloved hand. "The weapon connected here, repeatedly. This was a brutal killing. The weapon was probably a slender object, with a thin tip, like the base of a vase or ornament. There were minute fragments of wood in the wound, but they weren't big enough for comparison."

Grissom gave Sara a brief, pointed look at this information, but she remained neutral. "Any trace?"

Robbins shook his head. "No. I ran a tox screen though. He had traces of Rohypnol in his system".

Grissom lifted an eyebrow. "Someone drugged him?"

"Yes. Probably made him more susceptible to attack, and far less likely to defend himself. He also had a small amount of alcohol in his system, so I'm assuming someone slipped it into his drink at the hotel. This was definitely a pre-meditated attack."

Sara frowned, taking in this information, and Grissom nodded his thanks, already steering her towards the door. "Thanks, Doc".

They were silent until they reached the lab again, and silently moved to consult in his office.

"Have we got any background information on Goodard yet?" Grissom asked, settling in his chair and linking his palms together absently.

Sara shook her head, sliding into the seat opposite his desk. It was a position she had never entirely been able to get comfortable in. His office had housed some of their most unexpected personal conversations. "I've got Greg on it now. The guy was renowned in his field, so it shouldn't be very hard".

"We don't have much in the way of evidence", he pondered, looking troubled as he stared at something on the shelves behind her. "Either the killer was very fortunate, or he knew what he was doing".

"I think it was a little of both", Sara said, pursing her lips. "It was pre-meditated, but he left a lot of room for improvisation. Anyone could have seen him, presuming he lured Goodard out into the hall, or waited for him outside. It couldn't have been timed."

"I think it's safe to assume the killer was someone he was acquainted with", Grissom agreed. "Which narrows our field of suspects down to someone at the conference."

Sara nodded, smiling slightly. "I already anticipated that. I got Brass to run a background check on everyone in attendance. I also got Greg to start compiling a list of common similarities between the victim and the doctors at the conference".

A brief flash of approval crossed Grissom's face, something she knew he did not give out heartily, and he smiled slightly. "Good. I think we should also get some more statements from those who saw him at the mixer, and the server at the bar. He might have seen who was close enough to Goodard to slip something in his drink".

Sara hesitated. She wasn't sure why she hesitated, but she did. "That… doctor was seen arguing with him near the bar".

Grissom lifted an eyebrow curiously. "Dr. House? He could certainly be a viable suspect. His cane is a similar shape to the murder weapon, and he already appears to share some kind of animosity with the victim".

Sara was doubtful, but she decided not to voice her opinion. There was just something about Gregory House that made him seem like an unlikely candidate for murder. He was brutally honest, and she thought he really might have provoked an argument with Goodard for no reason other than that.

"Sara?" Grissom prompted, eyeing her thoughtfully. "You okay?"

She blinked out of her haze, shaking her head quickly. "Uh, yeah. Just… thinking. Why don't I go see what Greg's found out, and I'll check in with you later?"

"Okay", he agreed, watching her silently as she made her way towards the door.

If there was one thing she had regretted about confessing her past to him, it was that he had somehow managed to make his concern for her bleed into their professional relationship. It was special treatment like that she had wanted to avoid, especially from Grissom. He had his favourites, but he treated everyone equally, and she didn't want that to change. If they were to ever… well, she just didn't want anything in their personal lives to be influenced by what happened on the job. That was all.

She felt his eyes on her back all the way into the hall, and it was only after she passed the window to his office could the tension in her shoulders subside.

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Greg's fingers clacked animatedly over the keyboard as Sara strode into the AV lab. Archie had obviously gone on his break, leaving Greg to his computer, which Sara knew from past experience could be a bad combination. She leant over his shoulder, causing him to jump when he saw her reflection on the monitor.

"_Geez_, Sara, hover much?"

She smirked, quirking an eyebrow good-naturedly. "You're not playing computer games, are you?"

Greg shot her a look over his shoulder, continuing with his search. "I'm shocked you would ever ask such a question! Archie left me with his most prized possession here—you think I would jeopardise that trust?"

"Should I answer that, or just ask what you've got?"

Greg chuckled. "Wuss. Okay, well, I gotta say, this Goodard guy has a pretty impressive record. He was board certified in diagnostic medicine at age 35 and he does lectures all over the states when he's not running a residency program in New York."

Sara lifted an eyebrow. "He kind of sounds like Grissom".

Greg scoffed, amused by the comparison. "Yeah, you know, I've never really been able to picture him at those seminars of his".

Sara smiled faintly. Of the team, she was the only one acquainted with that particular side of their boss. "What else have you got?"

Greg shrugged. "He's fifty-two, his wife died of ovarian cancer eight years ago. He has no kids, no next of kin. His life was pretty much his work".

Sara sighed sadly. It was rare to find a professional with an equally balanced personal life. "What about his career history?

Greg shuffled a few papers, uncovering the biography he had managed to uncover on an online medical journal. "Well, he spent the first half of his career at Massachusetts General Hospital before transferring to The Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching hospital in New Jersey. He's now at the Mount Sinai Medical Center in New York".

Sara frowned, dwelling on a certain piece of information. "Did you say Princeton-Plainsboro?" she repeated carefully.

Greg nodded, untamed blonde hair shifting with his movements. "Yep. Why? You know it?"

Sara frowned. "Yeah. Our… some of the physicians we questioned at the conference come from that hospital".

Greg lifted an eyebrow, scrolling to the database he had started to compile. "I was about to get to that. I entered all the names Brass collected from the conference manifesto. There are one hundred and fifty doctors attending the conference. So far I've been able to rule out _five_".

Sara smiled grimly, ruffling his hair affectionately as she started back out the door. "Yeah, uh, sorry, Greggo. Patience is pretty much key with stuff like this. I have to get back to Grissom on something so… Have fun!"

He opened his mouth to protest, but she was already out the door. Turning back to the computer monitor, he started to mutter under his breath, wondering if he could brew his famous Blue Hawaiian coffee without any of the other CSIs raiding his stash.

It wasn't until halfway through his third mug that he realised he had ruled out thirty doctors, and found only one common connection. That connection was, again, Dr. Gregory House.

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_TBC…_


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** See chapter one.

**Accused  
****Chapter four**

Bored wasn't the word he would have used to describe what he was feeling at that moment. Dead might have covered it. The only thing preventing him from dozing off in the middle of Windsor's long-winded speech were the furtive looks audience members kept shooting in his direction.

At first it was kind of funny. The fact that they only had an added reason to be afraid of him was a source of great amusement. It just meant that they would leave him alone, and the expectation that he would socialise with them was neatly eliminated.

Now, however, it was starting to get old.

The overly tacky goldness of the room was also hurting his eyes, and Windsor hadn't thought to dim the lights before he started his presentation. Probably wanted to lap up the glory. Bastard.

Beside him, even Cameron looked bored, though she was trying considerably harder than he was to hide it. She tapped her nails impatiently against the white swathed table, a nervous habit she often displayed when she was agitated about a particularly difficult diagnosis.

Chase just looked disappointed that his years of solicitous hero-worshipping had turned out to be such a waste, and House thought that that pitiful, lost puppy look of his was almost worth weathering the two-hour session from hell. Almost. The novelty wore off after about fifteen seconds.

House detected the collective sigh of relief from the captive audience when the conference doors were opened, admitting the eager swarm of doctors into the hotel lobby. With his freedom intact, House took his time departing the hall, leaning heavily on his cane and allowing other audience members to filter past. Cameron and Chase also slowed their pace, walking leisurely through the doors beside him.

He should have known it was all too good to be true. The promise of freedom and a free buffet lunch were soon both footnotes in history as they spotted the Las Vegas police waiting for them on the other side. The slender brunette CSI was there, with the same gruff detective, but another, more solemn looking man with a thick black beard also accompanied them.

Cameron and Chase exchanged a fleeting, nervous glance before looking at him worriedly, something he refused to respond to. And Cuddy said he didn't inspire confidence. He sighed, popping a Vicodin in his mouth before striding towards the three officers with his standard amount of aloofness; somewhat thankful he had lingered behind long enough that most of the conference goers had disappeared into the hotel.

"Officers," he said, with feigned amiability. "What can I do for you?"

"Dr. House," Brass said warily. He found the stout detective's quick temper entertaining. He kind of reminded him of a much larger, penis-possessing Cuddy. Although she did already have the balls. "We were wondering if we could ask you a few more questions."

House shot an exaggerated look back at the pair he liked to refer to as his underlings, who took this as their cue to leave.

Brass held out a hand to stop them. "We'd also like to have a word with your colleagues, at a later point".

"Don't stray far, minions," House said deprecatingly.

Chase and Cameron shot him identical withering looks before disappearing further into the lobby.

He turned back to his three sombre interrogators, quirking an eyebrow expectantly. "_So_, what's on the agenda for today? Gonna put me in a line-up? I watch a lot of cop shows. Always wanted to know if they were believable."

Brass looked tired. "What kind of medication are you taking?"

House pretended to be shocked. "Well, that's a bit rude. Is that the kind of question you ask people on your second meeting?"

He rolled his eyes at their lack of reaction. These people were no fun. "It's a painkiller called Vicodin."

"For your leg?" the bearded man spoke up.

House sighed irritably. "Yes, for my leg. Although they take the edge off life a bit, too. Like right now."

The man, whose LVPD vest read 'Grissom', glanced dubiously back at the other two. Brass lifted a pointed eyebrow, as if to say, '_I told you so.' _

"Do you prescribe your own meds?" Sara inquired, expression much more serene than the men. He got the feeling she was used to dealing with her fair share of jerks. As a woman in her line of work, it was to be expected.

He lifted his free hand to his chest. "That would be _illegal_, wouldn't it?"

"Just answer the question," Brass said irritably.

House turned his attention to the detective. People often mistook his misanthropic nature for the guise of a poor doctor, and it was one thing he refused to tolerate. "No, of course I don't. I have a doctor back in New Jersey who does that."

"What about your employees?" Sara asked. "Could they prescribe you medication?"

"Sure. But they're just too damn ethical. Corrupting them is a work in progress."

"But you have access to drugs?" Sara speculated.

House frowned. "Everyone in this building has access to drugs. You think they'd be a bit happier. Are you going somewhere with this, or do you want in on something?"

"Paul Goodard was drugged," Grissom reported. "We believe someone may have slipped Rohypnol into his drink when he was at the bar."

House lifted an eyebrow at this news, but covered his surprise with his usual amount of sarcasm. "Hmm. You guys are subtle."

"We were wondering if we could take a look at your cane," Sara asked carefully.

House shot her a disbelieving look. This was getting a little ridiculous, even for him. "For what, exactly?"

"We'd like to rule it out as a murder weapon," Brass said abruptly.

House scoffed, fixing it firmly at his side. "You know, I actually dated a constitutional lawyer once. I think you need a warrant if you want to steal a cripple's cane."

Brass glanced back at the two CSIs, pursing his lips. "We'll get one," he assured the diagnostician darkly.

House started to walk away, gait stiff and irritable. These people were starting to become more than a mere annoyance. "Great. Let me know when you do. I'll shine it up real nice for ya."

He strode through the lobby, cane clicking on the marble floor with swift, practiced ease. On the exterior, he was the same, bitter caustic doctor hotel patrons hastily steered clear of, but inside, he was starting to feel a modicum of unease. His instincts were warning him, and if there was one thing House trusted more than twenty plus years of medical experience, it was that innate sense. It was telling him he was in trouble, and he decided to believe it.

This was definitely starting to look less than funny.

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The hotel boasted a pretty Verandah Café, strategically positioned so that it was invisible and almost soundproof to the sounds of the nearby Strip.

Cameron sat alone at a table under an overhanging fern, flipping idly through the conference program that had been distributed that morning, waiting for Chase to return. He had muttered some excuse about retrieving something from his room, but Cameron thought he just wanted a few moments to himself. She let him have them.

Neither of them believed House guilty. That wasn't even a question. But he wasn't helping himself, and it was making both of them nervous. Unlike Foreman, they could freely admit that they respected and admired their boss, despite his moody temperament. They didn't particularly want to see him locked up for murder.

She glanced up in time to see that female investigator, Sara Sidle, approaching her from the entrance. She stifled a small smile. Pairing the women together. House used that same tactic to get information out of patients.

"Dr. Cameron?"

Cameron lowered the program to the table, waiting for Sara to invite herself to sit. She was an excessively polite person; a trait instilled into her from birth. That didn't mean she was going to make it easy for this woman to indict House, or offer anything that might be interpreted against him.

"I wanted to ask you a few more questions, if you don't mind."

"Okay," Cameron agreed quietly, studying her as she took the opposite chair. She was tall and slender, with shoulder length brown hair. She dressed casually, with a black jacket and jeans, and Cameron got the uneasy impression she was very good at what she did.

Sara, in turn, also discreetly considered the doctor before her. She was extremely pretty and soft-spoken, and she had to wonder how she had survived in such a driven, highly competitive profession. Obviously there was something missing from her outward observation, some inner strength or purpose, and Sara made an inward note to look for it during their conversation.

She clasped her hands on the table, leaning forward slightly. She had her own reservations about House as their suspect, but speaking to his colleagues would make that assumption much clearer. Of course, all the character witnesses in the world wouldn't deter them from what the evidence was telling them, and she got the feeling Dr. House's would be limited to very few people.

"Did you know that your boss had a prior relationship with Paul Goodard?"

Cameron frowned slightly, folding her arms across her midsection, in an almost protective manner. She looked uncomfortable, but that wasn't unusual. Most people who had little experience dealing with police reacted awkwardly. "Yes. He said they used to work together."

"Did he say anything else? About their relationship, maybe?"

Cameron met Sara's gaze steadily. "Dr. House has trouble getting on with most people. Their relationship wasn't unusual for him."

Sara lifted an eyebrow, sensing an opening in this statement. "But he gets along with you?"

Cameron shifted. "Sure. I guess so."

Sara sensed Cameron's discomfort, and decided to be honest. "If you don't mind me saying so, it doesn't seem like he… treats you very nicely. How can you work for someone like that?"

Cameron looked down. Sara got the feeling she was very used to defending her boss. "House… is complicated. He's in pain a lot of the time. He lost the use of his leg through a misdiagnosis. He has trouble trusting people."

Sara lifted an eyebrow, sliding her sunglasses through her fingers. Obviously, this woman had a different picture of House than the one she did. She wondered if that was merely idealistic, or if she just saw the good person underneath. As someone with her own great deal of experience with an emotionally unavailable boss, she liked to believe it was the latter.

"So last night, you didn't see him go up to his room?"

Cameron shook her head. "No. I was talking to a lot of different doctors. Our boss, Dr. Cuddy, wanted us to represent the hospital."

"And Dr. House wasn't included in that obligation?"

"He was, but…"

"He ignored it?" Sara guessed, slightly amused. "I've been told he has a very high reputation?"

"He does. He just prefers to treat patients than deal with the human aspects."

"Which is why he has you?"

Cameron nodded hesitantly. "And the rest of his staff."

Sara asked her a few more routine questions, but she spotted Dr. Chase returning to the restaurant and knew any ounce of trust she might have gained from the other woman would vanish in his presence.

Dr. Cameron was certainly more insightful than she gave her credit for. She answered Sara's questions with perfect civility, but she didn't give her any additional information. She was like the ideal foil to House's bluntness and contempt, and Sara could see how valuable she would be on House's team.

She strode back into the lobby, to find Grissom leaning against the wall, studying the incoming hotel patrons with detached interest. She knew what that was like. In their line of work, it became an occupational hazard to take note of the people around them. They could detect the most insignificant details about people and fit them to a case.

"How did it go?" he asked, turning his attention to her immediately. He often grew preoccupied when they were surrounded by potential evidence, but he always gave her his utmost interest, and she appreciated that about him.

"She was pretty tight-lipped. They're surprisingly protective of their boss, considering how he treats them."

Grissom nodded. She could tell Dr. House fascinated him, purely because he was a contradiction in human behaviour. By nature most doctors were nurturing and kind, as well as a little bit arrogant— something that came from years of having lives constantly in their hands. House was arrogant, yes, but he was also scathing and bitter, and appeared to take no enjoyment from his profession.

"There is loyalty in familiarity."

She pursed her lips. She would never tell him, but sometimes Grissom reminded her of a Buddha.

"I also kind of got the impression… that there was something going on between Dr. Cameron and Dr. House."

Grissom frowned. "You think they're in a personal relationship?"

Sara shrugged hesitantly. It wasn't something she had wanted to bring up, but even the smallest amount of information could turn out to be relevant. "No… I don't think so. They don't act like they're intimate in any way. It's just a… feeling, I guess."

"Well, he is her boss. That would be unethical, wouldn't it?"

She shot a look at Grissom, swallowing slightly. She forced herself to ignore the uncanny parallels between their situations. "I don't think House is very worried about ethical behaviour."

That being said, Sara suspected he had an ethical line, somewhere in his mind. An inter-office romance was an entirely different ball game to murder. And despite all the evidence that said so, Sara just didn't think that House could do it.

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"That detective ambushed me in the hallway. Asked me all these of stupid questions about last night, and if I think House is capable of murder. He didn't even try and hide the fact that he doesn't like him. What did they ask you?"

Cameron shifted, prodding vaguely at her salad. Chase wanted to talk about nothing but their latest round of questioning, and she couldn't shake the guilty feeling that had been with her since Sara Sidle left. She didn't know where it came from, but it filled her with unease.

"About the same," she murmured distantly.

Chase nodded, accepting her answer without further prompting. "This is getting ridiculous. I had a doctor ask me earlier if I worked for, 'that murder suspect'. It hasn't even been twenty-four hours yet, and everyone seems willing to believe that he did it. I can't believe these people."

Cameron sighed. She couldn't believe it either, but she could see rationally, that House was a logical conclusion.

"Where is House, anyway?" Chase asked, swathing a roll with butter.

Cameron frowned. House hadn't reappeared since they left him alone with the police. "I don't know," she said softly, slightly troubled. At least until this morning, House had been treating the entire affair as a joke. She wasn't sure if he still felt that way now.

"Do you think…?" She hesitated, scanning Chase uncertainly. "Do you think we're going to need to ask Cuddy to arrange a lawyer?"

Chase scoffed, but he looked worried himself. "Let's not… get ahead of ourselves, Allison."

"Yeah," she muttered, glancing down at the table. She traced the patterns on the tablecloth, unable to displace the feeling that things were only going to get worse.

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Even on a normal day, House wouldn't have felt guilty about playing hooky. Another afternoon session in a room full of stuffy doctors sounded unappealing even before he was a murder suspect, but now the prospect was just unbearable.

He took a twisted sort of pleasure in shocking people from their first impressions of him. What they initially saw was a mixture of things; a doctor; a cripple; a quiet, middle-aged man. _After_, well, after, they saw a mocking, unprofessional bastard, and he enjoyed seeing the look on their faces when they made that internal shift.

This wasn't the same. It was beyond his control, and he loathed being out of control. It had only happened to him once before, and that had resulted in the loss of his leg.

He strode leisurely down the Strip, slightly less crowded than its nighttime status. The casinos were still in full swing, and he inwardly jeered at the obvious tourists flittering in and out of the less obvious ones, with their bright Hawaiian shirts and neck slung cameras. He ducked into a souvenir shop upon entering The Tangiers, and bought Wilson a t-shirt that read 'What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas,' before gruffly browsing the rest of the casino.

He had been to Vegas twice before; once just after college, and once with Stacy. He was fond of the city, but he knew he couldn't spend any lengthy periods of time there. He craved routine just as he craved chaos, and he knew Las Vegas represented a level of unpredictability that would set him completely off-balance.

After striding a complete circle around the bustling floor, he decided to hell with Cuddy, and settled at a blackjack table, waiting for the dealer.

There were other ways to forget sometimes. And who knew? Maybe if he got lucky enough, his problems would just disappear on their own.

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_TBC…_


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** See chapter one.

**Accused  
****Chapter five**

"Greg House is a _despicable_ man..."

"He's an excellent doctor… but really, no manners at all."

"That man should be _ashamed_ of himself."

"So… you can tell me. Do you think he did it?"

The voices of the doctors Sara spoke to that afternoon started to mingle together in one steady mantra of indignation. The fact that they were all far too preoccupied with the idea of a murderer among them instead of the death of a respected colleague bothered her immensely. Apparently doctors were actually very big on gossip. Enough so that she was slightly worried about the safety of her medical records.

Loretta Michaels, Goodard's colleague and travelling companion, had been too distressed to speak to them the previous evening. She was now willing to answer their questions. She and Grissom met her in the stylish Lobby Lounge; sitting opposite her on sofas similar to those they had first questioned Dr. House and his employees.

Loretta's blonde hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and she wore a stark white cardigan, as if somehow making up for the absence of her lab coat. Her features were wan and tired, and it was clear she had been at the receiving end of her fair share of prying.

Sara smiled gently, attempting to break the ice with her. Social skills weren't high on her list of practical personal qualities. Like Grissom, the evidence was what called to her. She had no difficulty goading a confession out of a suspect, but she was always slightly more awkward when it came to speaking with a victim or their loved ones.

Perhaps because she knew exactly what they felt like.

"We arrived here early. Maybe a little after three in the afternoon. Paul got our rooms organised while I checked in with my husband. He always worries when I fly."

She twisted her face in a brief frown, adding this fact almost vaguely. Sara leant forward encouragingly. "What did you do before the conference started?"

Loretta sighed. "We had a light drink at the Club Bar, and spoke to the doctors we knew as they arrived."

"The Mount Sinai Medical Center is very distinguished", Grissom remarked gently. "You must have known quite a few."

She nodded, smiling weakly in agreement. "We're here every year," she concurred. "Paul is… _was_, very socially aware. He always did what was in the hospital's best interests. I just can't believe anyone would even think of hurting him…"

Sara nodded sympathetically. "I know this must be hard for you. We just need you to tell us what you can remember about last night."

Loretta nodded, quickly composing herself and setting her spine rigidly straight. "Of course," she said quietly. She sighed deeply. "We arrived at the ballroom early as well. Paul was well acquainted with many of the doctors, and I suppose we lost each other in the crowd. But we continued to run across each other for most of the night. It was only later that I realised he was missing."

"Did you see him go to the bar?" Grissom prompted.

She nodded, laughing shortly. "How could I forget? He was speaking to Greg House and I saw them get into an argument. I didn't take much notice of it at the time. Even someone as mild-mannered as Paul could provoke that man. He mentioned they were old colleagues, and that House had some kind of unfounded grudge against him." She scoffed humourlessly. "But Paul _had_ to see the good in everyone. Now I can't stop rewinding that moment in my mind. If only I had known what was going to happen after it. I would have paid more attention. I might have heard what they were saying"

Sara shifted, glancing at Grissom in the corner of her eye. Loretta too, seemed convinced of House's guilt. There was a startling amount of venom in her voice when she spoke.

"Did you see where Paul went after Dr. House left the ballroom?"

Loretta shook her head. "I was sidetracked. A waiter spilled wine on my dress. I had to go to the ladies' room, and when I came back he was already gone."

Sara was unable to stifle a despondent sigh, and Grissom shot her a quick glance. "Thank you very much for your help, Mrs. Michaels. We would ask that you stay in Las Vegas, at least for the remainder of the conference, if you were planning on going back to New York."

She slowly shook her head. "I understand. I assumed you would want me around. Besides, someone has to organise Paul's body to be returned to Manhattan after you close your case."

Grissom nodded, offering another polite thank you before she rose and left the Lounge. Grissom and Sara remained sitting where they were, disenchanted by their progress.

"Brass spoke to the waiter from last night. He said he didn't see anyone slip anything into Goodard's drink," Grissom murmured at last, looking troubled.

The afternoon sunlight filtered in through the side windows, bathing the Lounge in a mixture of natural and artificial light. Sara glanced down at the carpet, nodding absently, features twisted in a thoughtful frown. Grissom studied her, sensing she was in deep thought.

"Greg's still compiling a list of all the doctors in attendance," she said, at last. "So far there aren't many common similarities."

"Except Gregory House," Grissom guessed swiftly.

Sara sighed. "And his two colleagues, but only by association." She hesitated, swivelling in her seat and leaning against the armrest to meet his gaze. "Maybe we're going about this all wrong", she suggested carefully.

Grissom lifted an eyebrow, intrigued by her frank statement. "How would that be?"

"Well, how can we be so sure someone at the conference was responsible? It could just have easily have been one of the employees. And Loretta mentioned that they attend this conference yearly. They must know a few people in Vegas by now."

Grissom looked doubtful. "It's possible. But until we can clear Dr. House, he's our most logical suspect. And to do that, we need to analyse his cane."

Sara scoffed. "With what? We have no grounds for a warrant. This whole thing is just going in circles. And while it is…"

Grissom eyed her shrewdly. "You don't think he did it."

She shifted, eyes darting over him briefly. "I never said that. It's possible. The evidence—"

"The evidence points in his direction." Grissom finished firmly.

Sometimes she wondered how he could still hold such strong faith in the evidence. It had failed him in the past. Yet science would always be his safety in the face of the unpredictability of the world; the messiness of human emotion. It was his one constant. Without it, his life had nothing to guide it. No order or reason.

"Right." If Catherine had opposed him, he might have trusted her judgement. Even Nick, or Warrick. Not her. She was the epitome of instability, and Grissom could never risk trusting that without shifting his whole world into chaos.

"Okay," he said quietly. He looked away, and she knew he knew exactly what he was guilty of. She just wished one of them could acknowledge it, and purge the tension constantly present between them.

He scanned the lively bustle of human activity in the lobby, as afternoon began to slip into evening and people migrated inside. "We should get back to the lab. There's nothing more we can do here today."

It was true. The evidence, or what little of it they had, pretty much ended here. Without anything else, there was nothing they could do to prove House's guilt. Or innocence.

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Cameron cradled her cell phone loosely to her ear as she climbed into the elevator, promptly pushing the button for the fourth floor.

"I haven't seen him all afternoon. I don't know where he is. He missed the last session."

She heard Foreman scoff on the other end of the line, without a measure of surprise, and sighed tiredly. "If I had to take a guess, I'd say he was at a casino," he said pointedly.

"Good deductive skills," Cameron responded wearily, slumping against the elevator bank and watching the floors light up above the door with a sort of detached awareness.

House had not made a reappearance since they left him with the police that afternoon. She knew shirking his responsibilities was not particularly out of character for him, but she thought at a time like this that he might have known a little better.

She and Chase had shared a drink and stilted conversation at the Verandah Café before she decided to call it a night and return to her room. Chase had stayed behind, idly chatting up an attractive redhead intern he met at the bar, and she had left him to it, receiving a call from Foreman on her way.

Obviously, he wanted to check up on them, and was tired of getting information through indirect sources like Wilson and Cuddy.

"He'll come back on his own, Cam. Don't worry so much about the guy."

Cameron pursed her lips, amazed that even in these circumstances, Foreman's sympathy for their boss was limited. "He's being questioned for murder, and you're telling me not to worry about him?"

"For now, yes. There's not much you can do about it."

Cameron tugged at a loose thread on her jacket, folding one arm over her midsection. She decided to change the subject. "How did Cuddy take it?"

Foreman chuckled a little dryly. "As expected. She's been on the rampage since this morning. Without House around to take it out on, she's even worse than usual. Everyone's pretty much keeping out of her way."

Cameron offered some monosyllabic sound of commiseration in response.

Foreman sighed. "It'll be fine, Cameron. You'll see. You really think House is going to go down without a fight?"

The elevator doors slid open, admitting her into the dimly lit hall. She stepped out, simultaneously spotting a familiar figure at the end of the hall as she uttered her ominous reply. "That's what I'm worried about."

Her pace quickened slightly, and she stalked towards House, feeling her inner anger intensify at the sight of him. "I have to go, Foreman".

"Yeah, okay. I'll talk to you later".

She snapped her cell phone closed, barely uttering so much as a goodbye to Foreman, sliding it into the pocket of her jacket and folding her arms sternly as she strode briskly down the hall. "Where have you _been_? We've been looking for you all afternoon".

House laughed sardonically when he took in her approach. "Oh gosh, I'm in for it now. Am I grounded? Better take my keys and slap my wrist for being so naughty." He eyed Cameron lewdly. "Or maybe we could just skip to that last part."

Cameron detected the overpowering whiff of scotch just as she stopped in front of him. House leant heavily on his cane, staggering faintly, and she stared at him in disgust.

"Are you _drunk_!"

House eyes widened in mock surprise. "_No_! That would be unprofessional. We're at a conference, remember?"

The doors opened at the end of the hall, and she jumped, reflexively whirling around to see who had entered their passage. She relaxed slightly when Chase appeared, sans the redhead, nearing them with slow and purposeful steps as his features twisted in a confused frown.

"Oh, now it's a party", House said sarcastically.

Chase blinked, taking in his supervisor's state with the swift ease of a practiced eye. "You have got to be kidding me."

"We need to get him inside before somebody comes along", Cameron said unequivocally, taking uncharacteristic charge of the situation.

House snickered to himself at her brisk tone, enjoying their annoyance. He stumbled slightly and she was forced to grip his upper arm to help him keep his balance. House was not a graceful drunk.

Chase on the other hand, stood back, eyeing them both apprehensively. "This was _definitely_ not in my job description."

House staggered against his cane, lurching into Cameron. He inhaled her sweet fragrance, allowing himself to briefly enjoy the proximity without worrying about the consequences. The small brunette struggled under his weight, gripping his arm more tightly, glaring at Chase in exasperation. "_Robert_!"

He blinked, darting forward quickly. "Right. Sorry!"

Between them, they managed to drag him to his suite. House didn't bother protesting, and was either too drunk to care, or he just didn't care period.

When Cameron took his key card from him and opened his door, he shrugged off their grasp and strode unsteadily into his room, collapsing on a nearby armchair and lifting his sneakers on the expensive table in front of him. He dropped his cane on the floor, and it thudded mutely against the carpet, breaking the otherwise deathly silence of the modest room.

Cameron and Chase exchanged an uncertain glance, closing the door behind them. When House reached into his pocket for his Vicodin, however, Cameron snapped, stalking across the room and snatching it roughly from his grasp. "Are you crazy? You can't mix your pills with all the alcohol in your system!"

House shot her a withering look, leaning lazily back in his chair and gazing up at her. "Oh why not, you buzz kill? It really is an _excellent_ high. You need to try it some time."

She stared at him, entirely uncertain how to act in this situation. She had always elevated House as some kind of champion in her mind, and to see him fall so… humanly, was disconcerting to say the least.

Chase frowned, folding his arms crossly. Though he too respected and liked House, she got the feeling he was slightly more disillusioned when it came to his flaws. "Are you trying to kill yourself, House?"

House scoffed at the intensivist's unconsciously apt choice of words. "Well, apparently I've killed enough people this week."

The pill bottle rattled in Cameron's hand as she shifted, taking a few steps away from House and placing it gently on his bedside table.

"You didn't kill him, House. We all know that, so don't even joke about it."

House snickered. "Saint Cameron to my rescue again. Is this the part where I fall to my knees, beginning for forgiveness? Oh, that's right. You don't believe in God."

"Stop acting like this", Cameron snapped. "Since when did you start feeling sorry for yourself?" Chase gave her an incredulous look, one that she steadily ignored. They had never known him when he wasn't wallowing in his own self-misery, and using his physical pain as an excuse to alleviate his unhappiness. But this was completely different. "And where _were_ you?" she repeated, waving her arms anxiously.

House blinked at her with mounting irritation, wincing as if he had a headache. "Don't you have an off button?"

"Do you really think avoiding the police is such a good idea?" Chase put in reasonably. "It's only going to give them an added reason to think you're suspicious."

House shot him a withering look, obviously not appreciating his advice. "Has Foreman been giving you tips from the hood, again? He's a little rusty. I hear he's been practicing medicine instead of lifting cars these days. What is with _that_?"

Chase ran a hand through his long blonde hair, exasperated with House's evasiveness. His sharp edges were even sharper with the alcohol loosening his tongue. "Look, if you don't want to accept our help, then that's fine. But we're about the only people in this building who don't think you're guilty right now, so maybe you should think about that."

Cameron opened her mouth in surprise. "Chase!"

House waved at her impatiently. "Oh, save the righteous anger. It gives you wrinkles. They only needed an excuse to believe I tortured puppies for kicks. Now they have one".

Cameron knew he had never cared what other people thought, and that was no different now. But there was no denying what this could do to his career, and she knew that was what had sparked this sudden downward spiral. He was a good doctor with slightly controversial methods, and no one had been able to question that. Until now.

She knew he liked his job. Not for the same reasons she did, or even Foreman or Chase, but she knew without it, it would be like loosing another part of himself all over again.

"I'm sure there are other people here who think you're innocent…" she started, voice coloured with the unmistakable sound of hesitation.

House smirked, leaning his head back against the chair. "Oh, very convincing, Dr. Cameron. I was _this_ close to believing you."

She rolled her eyes, still feeling exposed under his gaze. Like she had failed some sort of test. It was how she generally felt around him, and even inebriated, he had failed to loose that intensity about him.

Chase cleared his throat. "Maybe we should just let him sleep it off", he suggested flatly, eyeing House with unmistakable disdain. House closed his eyes, welcoming the promise of solace and peace.

Cameron's disappointment and Chase's condemnation were almost suffocating, and he willed them to go and leave him to wallow in his own destructive behaviour. After leaving the Tangiers and loosing a sizable amount of money, he had retreated to an anonymous bar, one that had been very accommodating to his needs. Or had started that way, until they cut him off and called him a cab.

He heard Cameron heave a delicate sigh, a sure sign she was giving up the impending battle. No matter how hard she tried, she would never be a match for his impenetrable defences. He wished she would realise that.

The light suddenly dimmed, and the nagging headache in the back of his skull lessened slightly. He risked opening his eyes. The door leading to the hallway was open a fraction, revealing a sliver of light. Chase was already gone. Cameron stared at him a moment, sliding two Vicodin pills out of the bottle she had placed at his bedside. She strode forward, placing them carefully on the table in front of him, before retreating a few steps once more. He closed his eyes before she could see he was still awake, and he didn't open them again until she closed the door.

When he opened them again, he stared down at the little white pills, gleaming slightly in the glow reflecting from the Strip. They had once provided him with all of the answers he could possibly crave, and he wondered when managing his physical pain had become the least of his problems.

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_TBC…_


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** See chapter one.

**Accused  
****Chapter six**

House woke to the penetrating melody of Funky Town at his ear. He let out a low growl, rolling on his side to search for the offending cell phone.

"Chucky Cheese," he growled into the receiver, stifling another groan as a spiral of pain shot down his leg. Combined with the throbbing in his skull and he felt like he was paralysed. The feeling only intensified when the familiar voice answered his greeting.

"I'm glad to see you haven't lost your sense of humour."

He winced, scowling at Cuddy's unmistakably indignant tone. "Dr. Cuddy. If I'd known you were calling, I wouldn't have answered."

He scanned the room for his Vicodin, and could only come up with the two tiny pills Cameron had left on the table the night before. His frown grew more pronounced. Where had the girl put the damn _bottle_?

"I'm flattered. Don't even think about hanging up. I can have the hotel staff knocking on your door in seconds."

"Your powers are all reaching," House said sarcastically, shifting to an upright position. Armchairs really weren't the most comfortable place to pass out. His neck ached, and he twisted it painfully, cradling the phone loosely to his ear. "I don't even want to know how you have connections in Vegas. There was this old showgirl poster in the bathroom. That wasn't _you_, was it?"

"Cut the crap, House. What the hell have you gotten yourself into?"

House scowled. "Me? I didn't do anything."

"Arguing with Paul Goodard in a room full of people isn't anything? When are you going to learn to keep your mouth shut?"

House inched his legs onto the floor, hissing in pain and covering the phone receiver until it subsided. Cuddy, however, could apparently see right through the phone line. "Have you taken your pills this morning?"

He rolled his eyes. "You know, as fun as it is having women fawn over you every day, I'd really prefer it if you could put on a little gold bikini or something while you did it. Pitch the idea to Cameron. I expect her in that outfit by midday."

She ignored him. "Wilson thinks it might be a good idea if we organised a lawyer."

House clenched his jaw. "Does he? That hadn't really crossed my mind."

"Cameron also told me you're not cooperating with the authorities."

House narrowed his eyes; swallowing the two Vicodin Cameron had left for him. Was everyone against him today? "How nice of her to go scampering to good old Mama bear."

"I _called_ her. I wanted an update. Why won't you give them your cane, House? Do you have any idea how bad this looks?"

"Do I ever?" he retorted. He managed to climb to his feet, and immediately crossed to the bathroom. He riffled in the cabinets, retrieving the unopened packet of Tylenol he had stashed there. Apparently something as strong as Vicodin was too much to ask for. There was no way he was going to go crawling back to Cameron to retrieve it. This would have to tide him over for the morning.

"Why do you always have to do everything the hard way? I know your reputation still means something to you. Give them your cane, House."

House dropped the packet onto the sink. "I'm sorry, I have to pee. Talking to you at the same time would just be bad manners. Bye."

"Don't you dare hang up on me—"

Silence met his ears. He smirked with a grim sort of satisfaction before dropping the phone beside his paltry medication.

After showering and restoring his appearance to its usual amount of scruffiness, he consulted his watch to find it was only seven-thirty. Breakfast was still on for another hour, before the first session of the day.

The elevator was empty when he punched the button for the ground floor, and he tapped his cane idly against his feet. The lobby was, as ever, bustling with people, and the obnoxiously bright Vegas sunshine invaded the interior. House turned towards the restaurant, heaving a deep sigh as he scanned the crowd for the familiar faces of his team.

He spotted them at a table near the window in the corner, engaged in a half-hearted attempt at conversation. He frowned slightly; briefly considering the impact his predicament was having on them. They were surrounded by some of the most influential doctors in the country, and it was clear everyone was steering clear of them. No one wanted to risk an association with a suspected killer.

He moved around the edge of the crowd, negotiating his way through ridiculously tight-packed tables, allowing himself to study them without interruption. Both looked tired, and were engulfed by obvious silence. He knew that his three employees socialised outside of work, so their friendship was not the problem.

He reached the buffet table, fixing himself a mug of coffee before continuing towards them. He stopped at the edge of the table, glancing down at them uninterestedly. "So. I hear you decided to disrupt the chain of command. Very devious."

Cameron and Chase both lifted their heads, frowning at him darkly. It was a reception he was generally well accustomed to, but coming from two of his very few supporters and it was a little unsettling.

Cameron spoke first, fixing her gaze back on her plate of toast. Even when she was defying him, she couldn't look him in the eye. He knew Cuddy had been lying when she said she had called to check up. He had no doubt she would have, but he was sure Cameron had acted first.

"Cuddy wanted to know what was going on."

"Cuddy wants to know a lot of things. It doesn't mean she needs to."

"We left out the part where you were drunk," Chase spoke up, leaning back in his chair, meeting his gaze flatly and crossing his arms. "If it had been up to me, we wouldn't have."

House glanced at Cameron again, who refused to lift her gaze. So apparently she still felt the need to protect some of his honour. He cocked an eyebrow, carefully leaving a space between them before he took a seat. "And is holding my pills hostage going to improve this situation?"

Mutely, Cameron reached into her pocket, and placed his Vicodin on the table between them. The contents rattled slightly at the force. In other circumstances, House would have been amused by her obvious annoyance. Today he was just tired.

He took them, returning them to their rightful place in his pocket. He took a sip of coffee, mostly to give himself something to do. He didn't do awkward silences. People were generally too frightened of him to get uncomfortable in that way. With those he knew he would fill the gaps with his caustic remarks, and the world would spin on its axis again.

Chase was annoyed with him because of the alcohol, or the entire situation, he wasn't sure. He had shaken his ability to admire him and Chase was resenting him for it. He understood that. Cameron was annoyed because he wasn't doing the right thing, and she harboured some delusion that that was what he did. He didn't know how to deal with that, so he remained quiet, sipping his coffee and feigning interest in something outside.

The speaker on the wall above them announced in static sentences that the next session was about to start, and that everyone should gather in the conference hall. House considered skipping out again, but one look at Cameron and Chase and he decided otherwise. Mentally, he used the excuse that he didn't need them reporting back to Cuddy again. Yeah. That was the only reason.

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"Here's the footage from the camera installed on the fourth floor, where your Dr. House resides."

Archie cued the surveillance tape along, and Grissom and Greg stood mutely behind him, watching as several figures scurried in and out of their rooms.

"Goodard died at approximately 8:00pm", Grissom supplied.

Archie nodded, moving the tape along. He stopped at 7:40, and they watched, waiting for House to appear. Several feet were visible on the very edge of the camera, but there were several rooms, and the elevator, that were invisible to the surveillance.

"Whoever installed these did a botchy job", Archie announced, squinting at the screen. "Which room did you say was Dr. House's?"

Greg consulted a legal pad in his hands. "Room 212".

Archie frowned, cueing forward the tape again. "Room 212 is one of the ones invisible to the camera. If he went up there, it's going to be pretty hard for me to tell you."

Grissom was annoyed, and didn't bother showing it. "Try, please."

The A/V tech seemed unphased by his boss's shortness, and bopped his head. "Sure. I'll see what I can do."

Grissom and Greg departed the A/V lab, heading towards the layout room where Sara had set up an impressive diagram representing the connections between members of the conference and Dr. Goodard.

Twenty-five doctors had some sort of relationship with him, either incidentally or directly. Sara spun around at their sound of their entry, lifting an eyebrow questioningly.

"Surveillance cameras were a bust", Greg answered swiftly. "They can't tell if House went up to his room or not. For such a high end hotel they sure do love their shortcuts."

Sara frowned, looking slightly discouraged by this news. She turned back to the wall covered by her information. "Well, we were finally able to rule out one-hundred-and-twenty-five of the hundred-and-fifty doctors at the conference."

Grissom looked suitably impressed. "You two work fast."

"We had some help from Warrick and Nicky in their breaks", Sara admitted, smiling slightly.

Grissom sighed, again briefly allowing himself to mourn the prior productivity of his team. Fragmented, they weren't nearly as effective.

"Okay. Run them by me."

Sara nodded, warming to her task. He knew she revelled in presentations like this. "Okay. The red lines connect to the most viable suspects. Those with a direct connection to Dr. Goodard, either through work or his personal relationships." At least fifteen photographs were connected by these lines. Grissom nodded. Fifteen was a much better number than one hundred.

"The yellow lines indicate those who have an indirect connection. This includes those who share proximity to his home or hospital, and have inadvertent ties to him that might have caused them to meet each other."

She pointed to the remaining ten photographs.

Grissom frowned. "Why don't Dr. Chase and Dr. Cameron have lines?"

Sara hesitated, tapping her pen against her palm in an almost agitated manner. He strongly suspected she was functioning solely on caffeine. When she was immersed in a case, basic daily activities like eating and sleeping took on a lesser priority. "I wasn't sure what to classify them as. Or if they should even be considered suspects."

"They have indirect ties to Goodard through House. His poor relationship with their boss also gives them motive."

Sara looked doubtful. "What motive?"

Grissom sighed, leaning against the counter. They had entered their age-old argument. She was starting to allow her personal opinion to colour her work, and it was her one professional flaw. Which wasn't to say he himself wasn't guilty of it in the past, but lately it was becoming more of a problem for her. "Didn't you say you thought Dr. Cameron had a personal relationship with House? That could be motive."

She had spoken to Cameron, and she could hardly imagine her as a murderer. She nodded, though, and added the yellow lines onto the chart. They had to rule out every possibility and she was not about to give him a reason to think she was acting unprofessionally.

"So who are the most likely suspects?" Grissom asked.

Sara moved forward, pointing with the tip of her pen. "Those are classified by this blue line." Five photographs had a blue line as well as a red one. Sara read out the names. "Dr. Kenneth Gordon. He worked at Mount Sinai several years ago, and he and Goodard remained in contact. Jessica Heath. She was a student in Goodard's residency program and there was some speculation that they might have had a personal relationship. Jacob Blakely worked with him in Massachusetts and they wrote several papers together. Goodard took the bulk of the credit for them."

Grissom frowned, looking suitably intrigued. She went on. "Leslie Tanner went to medical school with Goodard, but he never got the fame Goodard did. And Greg House worked with him in New Jersey."

Grissom was impressed with her thoroughness. His expression told her as much. "Good work."

She shrugged modestly. "All of them have access to drugs, and would know the dosage requirements for Rohypnol to take effect. Brass is checking out all of the known distributors of the drug in a five mile radius of the Four Seasons Hotel."

"Good. If one of them obtained access to it, that's definitely grounds for a warrant to search their hotel rooms."

Sara nodded; somewhat more enthused by the prospect. "And maybe we can find our killer."

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"So. Are you going to freeze me out all day or is that just what all the cool kids are doing nowadays?"

Cameron calmly turned her head, giving him a blank look in response. For someone so nice, she sure was good at giving him the silent treatment.

The conference was in mid-break, and Chase had disappeared for a bathroom break some time ago. The Australian had the bladder of a terrier. Other doctors ambled around the hall, stretching their legs and crossing the room to chat to others. Cameron and House had sat in lengthy, strained silence for five full minutes before he finally decided to break it.

"Oh, come on. What do you want, Cameron? As fun as it is playing high school with you, this isn't the fun kind of high school with weed and sexy cheerleading outfits."

"Is this supposed to make me want to talk to you?"

Chase had occupied the seat between them, so now they were forced to speak to each other across his empty chair. House rolled his eyes impatiently at her stalwartness. "No. More like piss you off. Is it working?"

"What do you think?"

"I give you a six-and-a-half for effort."

Cameron shook her head, scoffing slightly. He didn't know why he was appealing to her. He relished pissing people off, and the fact that she wasn't peppering him with constant attention would usually be a bonus. But the silence bothered him, and reminded him of the potential severity of his situation. He would take Cameron and Chase's irritating conversation over that any day. Making amends with Cameron was obviously key in restoring their everyday balance.

Cameron had obviously decided that if he was broaching the subject, she was going to ask the question forefront on her mind. "Tell me why you're doing this. Everyone's acting like you killed somebody and you don't like it, but you're still letting them think it. Wouldn't it just be easier to—?"

"To what?" House retorted crabbily. "Give in? Give them my cane to analyse with their technical little laser beams? What will that prove, exactly? I'm always going to be the one they want to pin this on. It makes them look less incompetent. If they rule me out that way, they're just going to find another way to make me look guilty."

Cameron frowned. "I know you don't trust people but this is a bit extreme. They're the police."

"And that automatically makes them trustworthy? Everybody lies, Dr. Cameron. Even they do."

Cameron's pretty features twisted in a troubled frown, and he knew she had nothing to say to that. By that time Chase had returned, slumping into the seat between them. Both of them turned to the front, dissatisfied with their conversation for entirely different reasons. They lapsed into their previous silence, and the conference started again.

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When it reached its conclusion, they climbed to their feet, filing out into the sun-streaked lobby for an optional lunch that consisted of club sandwiches and cake. House automatically passed the restaurant, heading to the open Verandah Café, which was mostly free of the stifling crowd of his fellow doctors. Cameron and Chase decided to follow him, slightly less subdued than they had been that morning.

They were interrupted by the ringing of House's cell phone, which he rifled out of his pocket and lifted to his ear. "What?"

"I really hope that 'what' was directed at Cuddy and not me", Wilson's welcomely familiar voice started dryly in his ear. "You wouldn't want to make someone feel unwanted".

"Of course not", House answered, climbing to his feet and limping into the hall. He was beyond grateful to be free of Chase and Cameron for a few minutes. Cameron was now staring at him with a mixture of pity and compassion, and Chase was looking between them with confusion, obviously well aware that he had managed to miss something vital.

"How's Vegas? Been to any Strip clubs yet?"

It was a testament to their friendship that Wilson didn't come right out and ask about his current situation. He appreciated it. "It was on the list, but Cameron got all funny about it. Thought it was anti-feminism or something."

"Have you been questioned yet?"

House sighed, leaning against the nearby wall. "Not formally. I'm sure they're working up to it."

"Cuddy said you hung up on her this morning."

"We're acknowledging this why?"

"I don't know. She said you weren't very keen on my idea."

"That the nurses should change their uniforms to match the Laker Girls?" House reiterated, with mock severity. "What would make you think I'd be against _that_? _Oh_, you mean the _lawyer_ thing?"

Wilson sighed. "Greg—"

"Look, I've already got Cameron and Chase panting down my neck. I don't need another babysitter. I'll call you back later."

"Right. Don't strangle them."

House smirked. "My murder quota is full up for the week. Better let this one blow over first."

Wilson sighed tiredly, but there was an undercurrent of amusement in his voice. He was perhaps the only person who understood that House needed to joke about serious situations in order to deal with them. "Goodbye, House."

"Later, Jimmy."

He flipped his cell phone closed, frowning when he glanced up and spotted the now all too familiar form of Jim Brass strutting towards him with two officers in toe.

He quirked an eyebrow, ignoring the sinking feeling in his gut. "Dramatic entrance. Why do I get the feeling this is something bad?"

"We have a warrant to search your hotel room", Brass said flatly, completely unamused. He lifted the offending piece of paper, which House barely scanned. "We're also going to have to ask you to come down to the station with us for some questioning."

House nodded slowly. "Uh _huh_. I get an explanation, or does that stuff just kind of come later for you people?"

Brass smiled unforgivingly. "A drug supplier gave us your name for illicitly obtaining Rohypnol. You have the right to an attorney. I get the feeling you are definitely going to need one."

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_TBC…_


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** See chapter one.  
**Author's Note:** Hey all! I told you I would be back, but you'redefinitely _not_ the only oneswho didn't expect it to take this long. I want to assure everyone that I am fully on board with this fic again. I won't leaveyou hanging this long again, pinkie swear grins

**Accused  
Chapter seven**

"That's him, huh?"

Grissom peeled his gaze away from the observation glass long enough to catch Catherine's entrance. The sumptuous blonde cocked a curious eyebrow, indicating the jaded figure of Greg House lolling on a chair in the interrogation room.

"What are you doing here?"

She shrugged, sidling up to his shoulder and folding her arms casually. "We've got a lull between cases. Heard you had an interesting one on your hands."

Grissom shrugged, looking mildly thoughtful. "We'll see."

"Sara doesn't think he did it?"

Grissom snapped his head in her direction, frowning deeply. "Where did you hear that?"

"News travels fast in this place, Gil. People talk. I cultivate gossip, so naturally I hear about it."

"I noticed", Grissom muttered unhappily.

"What do you think?"

He sighed. He was allowed to be slightly more open with Catherine because she posed no personal threat to him, and she already knew most of his hidden facets. Trust her to become interested in a case over which he and Sara had developed a small amount of conflict. "I haven't questioned him yet," he said evasively. "I'll defer my opinion until then."

Catherine rolled her eyes good-naturedly, and Brass peered into the small room. "We're ready."

Grissom nodded, breaking away from Catherine. His best friend looked set to watch where she was, and made no move to leave. He sighed, and entered the interrogation room behind the caustic homicide captain.

"Dr. House", Brass offered dryly, taking a seat at the table. "I knew I'd have you in here eventually."

Grissom mutely settled himself beside him, studiously examining the scruffy doctor. He could tell by Brass's tense body language that he didn't like House. He wondered if it was because he suspected him, or merely because their personalities were so similar they were destined to clash.

House responded with his own bitter smile. He could feign indifference, but his reputation was on the line here and they all knew it. He leant back in the hard steel chair, tapping his thumb lightly against the table. His cane had been taken from him for analysis, and he looked naked without it, almost as if it had become an extended part of his body.

"It looks like you have a lot to answer for," Brass continued, taking smug satisfaction in the situation. The detective revelled in the tense atmosphere of an interrogation. His enjoyment was part of the reason he was so good at eliciting a response from their suspects. "Purchasing illegal drugs, having unaccountable whereabouts the night of a murder— not to mention all the nasty things your fellow doctors have to say about you. So I'm confused, Doc. Why so unpopular?"

House looked unbothered by his line of questioning. He was obviously intimately aware of his reputation among his colleagues. He appeared oddly proud of it. "Wish I could work that one out. The others kids just don't seem to want to play with me. What can I tell you?" He held up his hands in a 'search me' kind of gesture, face twisted in contrived bemusement.

Brass scowled. "I think I can see why. It also says in the conference manifesto that you skipped the afternoon session yesterday. What, the whispers getting too much for you?"

House lifted an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah, I was really cut up about it. Went up to cry in my pillow and everything."

Grissom decided to step in. As undeniably entertaining as it was to witness Brass verbally spar with someone more than capable of matching him barb for barb, it was getting them nowhere in their questioning. "Are you familiar with the uses of Rohypnol, Dr. House?"

House turned his attention to him, as if he too, were sizing him up. Grissom had no doubt House was an insightful man, and almost felt as if he were on the opposing end of the interview.

For whatever reason, House decided to answer him directly. Perhaps just to spite Brass. "I live in Princeton, home of ye old Ivy League. I've seen my fair share of date rape victims."

"And you know it was declared illegal in the United States in 1984?"

House looked annoyed. "Well you know, it might have come up once or twice when I was practising medicine."

"Then how do you explain the description given to us by a known distributor in downtown Vegas?" Brass spoke up. "Not to mention your name?"

House lifted his eyebrows. "You're listening to a drug dealer over a doctor? Nice work. People must feel really safe in Las Vegas."

"Do you have an alibi between 6 and 7 o'clock the day you arrived in Vegas?"

House clenched his jaw. "I was in my room."

"The room excuse again?" Brass jeered. "I think you really need to work on your story, Doctor."

"Dr. Cameron came to get me an hour after we went up to our rooms," House snapped. "You can check with her if you don't believe me."

Grissom lifted an eyebrow. This was an ideal opening. "How can we be sure she isn't going to cover for you?"

House's expression was stoic. "Clearly you don't know Dr. Cameron."

Grissom pursed his lips. "Are you sure about that? She seems quite fond of you. I'm sure she would be willing to suspend her ethical beliefs."

House folded his arms with an impatience unfitting a man of his profession. He was defensive; of his team, or of Cameron in particular, Grissom couldn't tell. "People don't do me favours."

"Because they don't like you?"

"Because I don't like them."

Grissom found this philosophy on life vaguely disturbing. He clasped his hands on the table. "James Russell Lowell said, 'A sneer is the weapon of the weak.'"

House scoffed. "If you wanted to cow me with pretty words, you should have just asked. Wine does it so much better." He lifted an eyebrow. "This Lowell guy have any issues with copyright?"

Grissom was unphased. "You're a misanthrope."

"So my boss tells me."

"Yeah, we'll be sure to get her glowing opinion of your character," Brass spoke up, slouching calmly back in his chair. "Like this, for example. It says in your records you had a restraining order placed against you by one of your patients, after you assaulted him. Doesn't sound very doctorly."

House scoffed at this summation. "He was refusing treatment," he retorted. "Some people just don't know what's good for them. That was withdrawn, you know."

"You're very well known in your profession," Grissom said slowly. "More for... pushing the boundaries than anything else."

"It wouldn't be a stretch for us to believe you committed a murder," Brass concurred. "Particularly if it was a colleague you didn't like."

House remained impassive. "If that was the basis for murder, it would be a long list. You guys are about to sign up."

The door to the interrogation room slid abruptly open, and a brisk young woman with a polished leather briefcase sauntered into the cramped room.

Brass opened his mouth, irritated at the interruption. "Uh, we're in the middle of an interview here."

"I'm sorry, but I can't allow you to question my client any further without an attorney present," she said curtly, halting in the doorway with her features twisted in a stern frown. She folded her arms over her briefcase, unbothered by the detective's impressive wrath.

Grissom lifted his eyebrows doubtfully, and House gave her a long look. "Uh, yeah, I didn't order an attorney. Unless you double as a hooker. You do that kind of thing in Vegas, right?"

She gave him a cold smile. She looked about twenty-five, and hardened twice that age. "Your friend called for my services."

"Damn Cameron," he muttered under his breath.

Brass looked deflated to have his session cut short, and the building tension dissipated noticeably. Grissom sighed. A confession was going to be impossible now.

"So, gentlemen, if you'll excuse us…"

House's indecision strengthened at this cue, and he took it as an invitation, rising to his feet. "Well, you just can't argue with a lady of the law."

Brass scowled at him, and House limped out into the hall with additional care, sans his cane, following closely behind his smart lawyer.

The door shut efficiently behind them, and Brass lowered his fist to the table, clenching his knuckles angrily. "Hell. I didn't think he'd lawyer up."

"I don't think he did either," Grissom noted, glancing idly at the closed door.

Brass sighed wearily. "We're gonna have to work hard to get something out of this guy."

"Well, Sara and Greg are searching his hotel room."

"Yeah, and I'm thinking he's a little too slick to leave something incriminating just lying around."

Grissom pursed his lips. They needed to devise a strategy. Though his interpersonal relationships suffered from his unsociable tendencies, he took a vested interest in evaluating criminal behaviour. House was an unyielding fortress on his own, but there were other ways of exposing his secrets. "Hmm. I think it might be an idea to talk to his team," he mused finally. "They seem like they might be more willing to open up."

Brass looked slightly more heartened by this suggestion and nodded, closing the folder swiftly in front of him. "Yeah. That's what I'm hoping."

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House followed his curvaceous, extremely hot attorney a few steps beyond the interrogation room, scanning the half-empty police department for his so-called 'friend'.

It wasn't the one he had been expecting.

"I'm sorry," Wilson stated, lifting his arms in a half-apologetic gesture. His earnest eyes were fixed on House's face, quirked in a hidden grimace as he awaited his inevitable reaction. "I had a feeling you were going to be needing my help."

House stared at him disbelievingly as they came to a halt near the waiting room lounge. He would never admit it, but he felt a faint burst of relief at the sight of his best friend. The cultured, clean-cut doctor was House's exact opposite, which made their strange, steadfast bond even more baffling to other doctors. If anyone could counter his penchant for recklessness, it was stable, rational James Wilson.

"I'll leave you two to catch up," his lawyer said, giving them a sugary smile before striding swiftly down the hall, heels clicking with every step.

House's gaze trailed after her. He barely waited until she was out of earshot before turning to glare accusingly at Wilson. "That's my representation?" he hissed, jabbing at her departing back. "What, did you find her under dial-a-tramp?"

Wilson gave him a long look. "You're seriously complaining?"

House scowled, leaning against the wall to take some of the balance off his poor leg. "If her best line of defence is to savvy up to the judge, then uh, yeah, I'm complaining."

"Sex sells, you know."

House clenched his jaw, looking away from Wilson's probing stare. It was easy to persuade him that he was handling things when he was half a country away, but it was far more difficult to hide from his scrutiny now. "Is she going for sainthood? Cameron called you, didn't she?"

"What, and expressing concern for your welfare is a character flaw now?" Wilson frowned. "Uh, don't answer that." He shifted, a familiar sign of his edginess. "And yes, she might have called me when they dragged you away for an _interrogation_. This isn't funny anymore, House. They're serious about this."

Understanding dawned on House's features, and his mouth twisted in a humourless, knowing leer. "You were already on a plane when you called me, weren't you?"

Wilson shrugged. His thick jacket looked slightly out of place in the Nevada institute, and he could recognise the effort he had undertaken to come here. House noticed subtle differences in his posture. He looked tired, and he was showing signs of the same weariness Cameron had been exhibiting. Something akin to concern.

"That surprises you?"

House sighed, giving in surprisingly easily. "It surprises me that you were willing to blame Cameron for your appearance."

Wilson smirked slightly, running a hand absently over his lifeless brown hair. "You were probably going to do that anyway."

House strode over to a soft blue chair, lowering himself into it tiredly. "How's Cuddy taking it?"

Wilson lifted an eyebrow at his abrupt acceptance, slowly taking the seat beside him. The two men stared ahead at the corkboard on the opposite wall, covered in newspaper clippings and police notices. "She's… taking it in her normal stride," he conceded. "Your lawyer out there actually comes specially recommended. Don't say she never looks out for your good."

"She's always looking out for my good," House grumbled, disgruntled. He linked his hands over his stomach. "That's the problem."

Wilson was silent, allowing him his moment of unspoken self-pity. He carefully cleared his throat. "I heard they got a search warrant for your hotel room."

House nodded. "Yeah, they're probably ransacking it as we speak." He winced slightly, rubbing absently at his leg. "They also took my Vicodin."

Wilson looked concerned, obviously worrying that, on top of their current problems, House was going to start exhibiting symptoms of withdrawal. House waved an irritable hand. "Oh relax. Now you're here I'm sure you can write me another subscription. And I hope you've got a ride for our little pit stop, because I didn't come here through the front door."

Wilson smiled weakly. It was strained, and House reluctantly began to comprehend the reality of his situation. Cameron and Chase's concern he could deal with, but if Cuddy and Wilson felt it necessary to start calling in reinforcements, he was in hotter water than he initially thought.

"They gonna give you back your cane?" the oncologist queried dryly.

House lifted an eyebrow, face darkening. He glanced warily at the front desk. "Good point. Let's see."

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"You can't do this."

Sara swept a hand irritably through her short brown hair, as she spared a backward glance at an irate Allison Cameron. The short brunette stood with her arms crossed defiantly near the door to House's room, Chase standing steadfastly beside her.

"Dr. Cameron, this would go a lot more smoothly if you and Dr. Chase waited in the hall."

Greg bent over the bedside drawers, kneeling by the double bed in the centre of the room. He eyed the pair curiously, who hovered indecisively at the perimeter of their boss's suite.

Sara straightened to her full height, in full no-means-no investigator mode. She waved a gloved hand. "Please."

The attending officer strode forward from the hall, cocking his head pointedly at the two doctors. Cameron frowned, and Chase heaved a heavy sigh, following him reluctantly outside.

"So that's Dr. Cameron?" Greg asked, lifting an eyebrow as he tugged open a drawer.

Sara turned her attention to him, returning resignedly to her open kit and taking out her flashlight. "Uh, yeah."

"She's hot," he noted admiringly.

Sara paused, rolling her eyes at his typical boyish reaction. _Men_. It was encouraging to know that even in such a highly respected profession, someone like Allison Cameron was admired for her physical appearance over her intelligence. "I can't say I noticed," she said darkly.

Greg shrugged, oblivious to her irritation, continuing his perusal of House's few personal items. "Doctor's don't usually come in a package like _that_. More like naughty nurses…"

"That's a gender stereotype, you know."

He gave her a withering look, catching onto her offence. "Oh, spare me the Grissom-style lecture, please. I'm just making an observation. Didn't you say this House guy was old?"

Sara frowned. "Not… old. A little younger than Grissom, maybe."

Greg lifted his eyebrows thoughtfully. "Hmm. She digs older men, huh? Interesting."

Sara resisted the urge to clear her throat, turning firmly towards the open closet. "Why is that interesting?"

She heard Greg's shuffling something around, so she assumed he only had half of his attention focused on their conversation. "I don't know. I'm just saying… _some_ people might find that risky. You know, dating a guy nearly twice their age. Their boss."

Sara stilled. She shone the flashlight among House's shoes and a hastily strewn duffel bag, swivelling to face him slowly. He wasn't looking at her, and she wondered if she had merely imagined the pointed insinuation in his tone.

Greg straightened to his feet, stretching his arms behind his back. He finally turned to regard her, and she saw the mingled curiosity and sympathy in his stare. Okay. So she hadn't imagined it. She just wished she had.

"Greg, if you're trying to say whatever it is I think you're trying to say—"

He held up a hand. "I'm not saying anything. Promise. My lips are sealed."

She lowered her brow, unconvinced. "Well, good," she muttered finally. "Have you found anything yet?"

He slowly shook his head. "Nope. Zilch."

He slumped on the edge of House's bed, bouncing softly on the mattress. Sara resisted a sigh. "Dr. House seems a little too sharp to leave something here for us to find."

Greg nodded in agreement. "He would have disposed of any evidence."

"_If_ he's our killer."

He lifted his gaze, studying her curiously. "You really don't think he did it, do you?"

Sara frowned, letting her eyes once again scan the modest room. She had seen the interior of a thousand hotel suites since her arrival in Las Vegas, from tacky motel six-style accommodation to five star luxury. They all looked the same to her. They all had the same anonymous atmosphere. "I'm an objective party. I'm not going to say—"

Greg rolled his eyes. "Again, spare me the Grissomness. Just tell me, straight up, if you think he did it or not."

Sara let out a long breath, crossing her arms defensively over her midsection. "No," she admitted at last.

Greg tapped his thumb against his thigh, tilting his head at her slowly. "What makes you so sure?"

Sara shrugged idly. "I can't say, exactly. It's just a feeling I get. You'd have to meet the guy to understand. He seems too… miserable to be a killer."

Greg quirked an eyebrow. "I thought that was basically murder criteria."

Sara shook her head, smiling faintly. There was no way to adequately explain the gut feeling she had. It was an innate instinct, and it was one she had learnt to trust over time. Grissom didn't operate like that, and he didn't encourage it in them, either. He trusted evidence. Straightforward facts and figures. He needed it logically set out before him before he could make a judgement call.

That, she had to admit, was part of the reason she suspected he still resisted a relationship with her. She was fire, sharp and passionate, and dangerous as all hell. He was cool and carefully aloof, cautiously evaluating his every step before allowing himself to tentatively tread into action. She didn't know which was worse… and which was more self-destructive.

"Trust me," she said carefully. "There's something in his misery that just… He harms others through his words. It's a defence mechanism. There's no violence in that."

Greg nodded slowly, but he looked like he genuinely acquiesced to her judgement. She appreciated his certainty.

She wished she could just find a way to prove it.

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_TBC…_


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** See chapter one.

**Accused  
****Chapter eight**

"Hey, guys. You look like you're having a good vacation."

Chase and Cameron both looked up from their morose fasciation with the carpet as Wilson strode into the room, followed by a slightly more petulant House.

House lifted an eyebrow, popping another Vicodin from his newly prescribed bottle, before slumping on the sofa opposite his two employees. "Don't let Cuddy hear you utter that blasphemy. We're supposed to be _learning_."

"Wilson," Cameron cried in surprise. There was no concealing the relief in her voice.

House rolled his eyes. "Sure. Ditch me for the newest cool kid."

Both of them ignored him, eagerly eyeing Wilson like he held the answers to the universe. Wilson got his first indication of the desperation they had been feeling for the last few days. He only wished he was there to offer an expedient solution.

"What are you doing here?" Chase asked quickly.

Wilson lifted an eyebrow, lowering himself to the edge of the vacant bed. He felt them shift their dependence to him almost immediately. Obviously the burden of attempting to save House from himself was too much for them to bear alone.

"Cuddy practically begged me to come. Looks like I got here just in time."

Cameron lifted an eyebrow in silent agreement, crossing one leg delicately over the other. He could see that this had been a particular strain on her. Of course she would take the most of the burden. Chase respected House as a boss, but that was as far as their relationship went. Cameron cared far more deeply, and he suspected House had been abusing her efforts as a supporter.

"Yes, so you can pass the torch onto Wilson now," House snarked, reading his thoughts with a startling ease.

Cameron shifted, looking away uncomfortably. Wilson sighed, feeling his usual burst of sympathy for her. "We organised an attorney. For now, she's going to take care of the legal side of things."

"Good to know," Chase muttered, scuffing his shoe on the side of the carpet.

"How did the interview go?" Cameron prompted, gazing up again and meeting House's eyes across the room.

Wilson wondered if anyone else had ever noticed how intently the two of them looked at each other. He certainly had.

House scowled. "Oh, peachy. They snagged my cane for a few hours of testing. Personally I just don't think it's ever going to be the same."

Chase frowned impatiently, tapping his hands edgily on his armrests. "What about the Rohypnol? How do they think you got it?"

House rolled his eyes. "Oh well, apparently I'm recognisable even in the drug-dealing community. Pretty cool, huh? Word on the street is, I limped downtown in time for some hard-core dealing in my unaccounted for hours before the conference." His eyes ticked carelessly over Cameron. "Oh, by the way, you're my alibi. Maybe you can tell them we were involved in vigorous, sweaty sex at the time. Think they'll buy that?"

Cameron pursed her lips, as she usually did when he made a particularly offensive sexual aside. "Good to know you're starting to take this seriously."

"It's a losing battle," Wilson remarked tiredly, leaning his palms back on the soft down comforter.

Chase closed his eyes, tilting his head back against the chair. "Well this just keeps getting better and better."

"Oh, contraire," House piped cynically. "According to my elusive lawyer, the two of you are probably going to get hauled in for questioning."

Cameron looked disturbed, and Chase lifted his head to eye House disbelievingly. His self-preservationist instincts were fighting to the surface. "What, they think we're covering for you or something?" he asked. Wilson had to admit they might not have the trustworthiest support in Chase. He grimly decided that he would have to remember that.

House leered, apparently on a similar wavelength. "Of course not. You'd _never_ do that."

Cameron sighed tiredly, far too used to their tension. She ran a hand over her face. "Doesn't all of this evidence seem a little too convenient to you?"

House shifted his jaw, reluctantly agreeing with her observation. "The thought had crossed my mind," he acknowledged darkly.

Wilson lifted an eyebrow. "You think someone's _framing_ you?"

House scowled. "I realise it's a little Law and Order-esque. Or maybe my sense of reality is just a little distorted right now. What, with my drug habit and all."

Chase looked mildly thoughtful. "Who hates you enough to frame you?"

They all stared at him, and he lifted his hands defensively. "Hey, I meant that in all seriousness! I mean nobody _actually_ likes you…" He paused, eyeing the two other occupants of the room, who happened to be excluded from that statement. He hastily cleared his throat. "But I mean, they don't 'not like you' enough to frame you for murder."

Wilson frowned considerately. "There… actually was a level of logic in that argument."

House rolled his eyes. "Well, personally my money would be on Foreman, but he's half way across the country."

Cameron closed her eyes, swiping her hair behind her ears. She slowly rose to her feet. "I think I'm going to go to bed," she announced suddenly, striding softly from the room.

Wilson lifted an eyebrow at her departure, glancing expectantly at House, who shrugged and looked away. "Oh, she's still not over our little _spat_ earlier."

Wilson looked questioningly at Chase, who furrowed his brows cluelessly. "Don't ask me. I have no idea what goes on between the two of them."

House shot him a distasteful look, and the Aussie stared back defiantly. His crew were certainly starting to learn how to deal with him. It was a fascinating transformation to watch, when there was really nothing he could do to help them.

"_Right_," House muttered, slightly amused by the underlying current of hostility. "I think it's bedtime." He turned back to Wilson fleetingly. "I'm assuming your anal-retentive organisational tendencies made you book a room ahead?"

Wilson nodded slowly, inwardly wondering how the three of them had managed this long without ripping each other to shreds. Foreman was usually a needed diplomatic presence, and they appeared to be suffering greatly without him. "Yeah, I did"

House rose to his feet, tapping his cane firmly by his side. "Great. I sure as hell don't need you snoring on my sofa."

The two men started for the door, and Wilson offered Chase a long-suffering 'what can you do?' expression over his shoulder. They needed to be a united front here. If House wasn't going to make amends, he was just going to have to step in and do it for him – like he usually did. Chase smiled vaguely in reply, obviously accepting his unspoken apology, and the door closed inaudibly behind them.

For a Las Vegas Strip hotel, the hall echoed oddly with silence. He supposed because mostly doctors occupied it. Obviously their party gene had been severally stifled. He consulted his watch, internal body clock mildly disrupted by his late flight. It was nearly two am.

House's room was only a few doors down, and they paused in front of it, exchanging a look. House sighed deeply, leaning heavily on his cane. His exhaustion was becoming more pronounced with every minute. "Don't suppose you want a drink, do you?"

Wilson smiled tiredly, gently turning down the offer. "Somehow, I think a drink is the last thing you need right now."

House rolled his eyes, but he looked like he had been expecting that answer. "Buzz kill," he muttered, turning to his door.

Wilson chuckled, swivelling towards the distant elevators. He glanced back at House briefly. "House."

House stopped, unable to look at him. Wilson frowned, feeling a stab of sympathy for him, but knowing that he could never express it out loud. "I don't even have to say it. You know that, don't you?"

House nodded shortly, staring intently at the doorframe. "Yeah. I know."

He twisted the knob, limping slowly inside. He didn't offer him a backward glance. It wasn't until the door closed fully behind him, that Wilson allowed the extent of his worry to finally manifest.

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"His cane doesn't match the contusion of the murder weapon."

Sara carefully concealed her smile of satisfaction as Grissom strode into the breakroom, where she and Nick were sharing a leftover carton of Chinese food.

The swing shift had a tough case of their own that had them working into night shift, and the signs of fatigue were showing on Nick's handsome Texan features.

"This is your Famous Doctor Case, right?" Nick prompted, prodding at a loose clump of rice. Sara gave him a sceptical look, and he shrugged. "That's what the media are calling it."

"Original," she quipped, chewing another piece of fried chicken before turning to regard her supervisor. "So that means we can rule him out, right?"

Grissom frowned, taking a seat at the other end of the table. "He could have easily procured some other object of opportunity. So we couldn't tie it to him."

Sara sighed. "Still, it would have been a little difficult to swing a weapon with so much force, dispose his cane, grab it again and make a quick enough escape so that no witnesses spotted his exit."

Grissom lifted an eyebrow. "The body was unaccounted for for at least fifteen minutes. That's plenty of time."

"Yeah, uh, I was doing some research on this Dr. House myself," Greg piped up, striding casually into the room. He dropped several papers on the conference table before sliding into the seat beside Nick. "This thing that happened to his leg?"

"An infarction," Grissom provided patiently.

Greg nodded. "Right. It happened five years ago. Before that he was a pretty skilled sports player. Lacrosse, track. And all the cane usage would have built up plenty of upper body strength. He'd easily have the potency to bash a guy's head in."

"Where did you pull this?" Sara asked curiously.

Greg shrugged. "Online Medical Journals. The guy is a legend in his field. People hate him, but they sure as hell respect him."

"Doesn't sound like the most upstanding guy," Nick noted.

Sara gave him a look. "And I'm sure if youexperienced muscle deathin your leg, you would be too."

Nick shrugged. "I'm just saying, there's always a silver lining. Some people would make the best of their situation. He's alive, isn't he?"

Sara rolled her eyes. "That's a pretty black and white view you've got there, Stokes."

"He's still our number one suspect, so for now, we're running with it," Grissom interrupted, eyeing them both impatiently. "Okay?"

Sara sighed, deferring to his leadership. She wasn't about to argue with him, certainly not in front of Nick and Greg. "I'll call his boss. You know, when it's a slightly more reasonable hour. See what she has to say about this."

Greg snatched her chopsticks, swiftly stealing a piece of chicken. "I'll keep working on the profiles," he said, between mouthfuls. "See if Tox found anything in his medication."

Grissom nodded. "We have a deadline here, guys," he reminded them sternly. "The Diagnostics Conference ends in four days. By that time, we lose all of our suspects, and any hope of finding our victim's true killer."

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The tap on her door was low and steady, and Cameron turned away from her bed, about to turn down the covers. She padded across the carpet in her three quarter length t-shirt and plain white sweats, pulling the door open resignedly.

House lifted an eyebrow at her, standing nonchalantly on the other side. "Mind if we talk?"

Cameron was very tired, and very very wearied with the entire situation. She could recognise how utterly uncharacteristic it was for him to voluntarily approach her, but she was far too exhausted to attempt to evaluate his motives. "Sure," she muttered, leaving the door wide open and striding back into the room.

She slumped on the edge of the bed, not caring how exposed or vulnerable she might have felt in front of House in her pyjamas.

He closed the door behind him, swinging his cane in front of him and halting at the foot of the bed. Sighing, he hesitated a moment before lowered himself into a nearby armchair, scanning her form carefully.

She had adopted a cross-legged position over the downy bedcovers, leaning back slightly on the pillows. She stared back at him calmly, waiting for him to speak.

He had spent ten minutes in his room after talking to Wilson, before coming over to her door. He didn't really know what the hell he was doing, but her distance was bothering him, more than he liked. Their screwed up dynamic was fine when he was the one screwing it up, but this was spiralling out of his control and he loathed relinquishing his control of a situation.

"You're still angry with me," he observed finally, tapping the top of his cane flatly against his sneakers.

Cameron blinked back at him, keeping her features void of expression. "No, I'm not."

He smirked knowingly. "Yes, you are."

She frowned, looking down at the bedcovers, and tracing a line distractedly with her index finger. "Fine. I am. I don't see why it would matter to you, so can you please leave now?"

House remained immovable, propping his leg slowly on the opposite armchair. "Well, you know me. I like to know fun facts about everyone around me. What's up with you?"

Cameron's frown deepened. She licked her lips carefully before she spoke. "You're being indicted for murder and you're not even taking it seriously. How am I supposed to back someone who won't even back themselves?"

House rolled his eyes. "I never asked you to wave your pom-poms, Cameron."

"Fine." She looked up, slanting one eyebrow delicately. "Then why are you here?"

She had him there. He scowled, annoyed with his own inability to stay away from her. Of course she was going to nag him about getting in touch with his 'feelings' on the subject. That was how she handled things. Not him.

"I am smart enough to realise that I don't have a whole lot of allies here," he said tightly. "I figure you and Wilson are the best ones I'm gonna get."

Cameron shook her head, exasperated by his contradiction. "I thought you didn't _want_ my support?"

House scowled. "Okay, fine, I lied. I still don't need criticism from you on how I handle this situation. I think the title 'boss' has been thrown around a few times in the last year or so. I don't remember passing you the crown."

Cameron looked away. "I'm not allowed to be worried?"

He resisted heaving an exasperated sigh. He knew Wilson's ideal strategy on this would be to ensure Cameron and Chase were both firmly behind him. He was always playing mediator between him and his team. Chase was a little unpredictable, but that was usually when his own hide was at risk. He knew he didn't need to make amends with Cameron to have her on his side. She was unwaveringly loyal. He supposed he just preferred her when she wasn't angry with him.

He didn't answer. Some small part of him appreciated her worry, and he didn't want to tell her to stop. The other part of him resisted telling her she _was_ allowed to worry, because it was an emotional admission he just wasn't ready to make.

He slowly rose to his feet, feeling his Vicodin rattle reassuringly in his pocket. He headed towards the door, and he had his back to her when she spoke again. "House?"

He paused, reluctantly turning to meet her gaze. Unlike most women, she was not unattractive without her normal make-up. With her soft, flawless features tilted towards him, she looked vulnerable and childlike and he was reminded yet again just how young she really was.

"Everybody who knows you… Everybody who matters, that is… We all know you could never do this."

He frowned, taking in her earnest stare, the soft, steady assurance in her voice. He turned, and quietly left the room.

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	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:** See chapter one.

**Accused  
****Chapter nine**

"So, scale-wise. How important do you think this conference thing really is today?"

Wilson glanced at him dubiously as House met him in the empty elevator. He pushed the button for the ground floor, warily contemplating this question. "Scale-wise? I'd… say it's fairly pointless. But then I'd probably be encouraging what ever half-cocked idea you have right now."

"Too late. We're playing hooky. I have a hunch that needs following up."

"A hunch?" Wilson repeated suspiciously. "What kind of hunch is that, exactly, detective?"

"You'll see. Also, I hope you've got some cash on you, because we're skipping breakfast. Wouldn't want the kids to catch onto what we're doing."

The Strip looked slightly less spectacular bathed in day, and the harsh desert heat beat down on them relentlessly from above. Wilson rolled up the sleeves of his Oxford shirt as he followed House down the sidewalk. He was mildly disturbed by the sight of gaudy casino goers flushing their hard earned money down the toilet, and found himself lingering behind House, until he had to quicken his pace to catch up to his swift limp.

"Hey, slow down, Dougie Houser," he complained, slightly dismayed by House's enthusiasm. "Where are we going, anyway? Wouldn't a cab be easier?"

"And ruin the atmospheric element of our journey?" House snarked, barely pausing. "I'm the one with the limp here. Tone down on the doughnuts."

Wilson rolled his eyes, not bothering to offer a retort as House steered around a corner, away from the more high profile casinos. The crowds were still thick, and he wondered how many of the other doctors had succumbed to temptation and skipped out on the conference.

House was uncharacteristically silent as they walked, and Wilson had to wonder if he had made the right decision, turning up unannounced in Vegas. He knew House was never one to admit when he actually needed help, but he got the feeling, right now, it was clear that he was drowning fast.

Eventually, House slowed in front of a grimy, non-descript old building he assumed to be bar. Wilson frowned, following House inside with a certain level of trepidation, wondering if he had brought him along solely as a companion to drown his sorrows with. However, House seemed driven by some other inner purpose, bypassing the bar all together, starting directly for the corner, where a group of thug-like men were assembled over the pool tables.

Wilson slowed his steps, wondering if House had developed a sudden death wish.

He was about to stop him, when House reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a hundred dollar bill. He waved it pointedly in the air, not bothering with preamble. "I've got a pretty green prize for the person who can tell me where the local detectives like to sniff around here."

The sudden silence was almost physically thick. One of the men glanced back at his companions, stepping forward slowly. He folded his hefty arms, bristling with unrestrained strength, and Wilson closed his eyes, envisioning a bar fight with his own grisly demise.

"Depends what they're sniffing for," he grunted, glowering down at House from his impressive vantage point.

House barely flinched, and Wilson was mildly concerned that this potential murder charge had somehow buoyed him with a sense of invincibility. That, or he just didn't care.

"Drugs. Rohypnol, if you wanna get real specific."

Another man stepped forward; leaning back against the pool table, cue in the air. He waved it pointedly. "We aren't narks, here."

House scoffed, rolling his eyes with something akin to impatience. "Right. Honour between thugs. How Hallmark of you." He reached into his wallet, pulling out another crisp bill. "How about I make it two hundred?"

Wilson unconsciously tensed, waiting for their reaction. The two men exchanged a brief look, and the first shrugged carelessly.

Then he snatched the proffered bills from House's hand.

"There's a Strip joint off Tropicana," he said, indifferently. "They got a snitch there who deals off the side."

House nodded shortly. "Thanks."

He turned abruptly, uninterested in sticking around further. Wilson snapped out of his disbelieving haze long enough to hurry after him, quickening his pace in his eagerness to escape, barely managing to contain his reaction until they reached the street, and the door thunked shut behind them.

"Okay, what the hell was _that_?" he demanded, coming to an abrupt halt and turning incredulously on House. "Thought you'd finally put those years of COPs reruns to the test? You do know the initials after your name are actually M.D. not P.I., right?"

House rolled his eyes, scraping his cane along the sun-streaked sidewalk. "Live on the edge a little, Wilson. It's a real rush."

Wilson wasn't about to be brushed off so easily. "Yeah, and if they beat you bloody and _then_ took your cash?" he snapped. He was used of House's reckless nature, but this was edging into frightening territory. "That would have been a rush, all right. Have you _completely_ lost your mind?"

House kept walking, stepping calmly off the curb. "Those competent detectives are doing a swell old job convincing themselves I did this. It's time to jump into the fray. If anyone's going to be digging my grave, it's me."

"You're paranoid."

House huffed derisively, shooting Wilson a dark look. "Little Miss Mary Sunshine suggested it, if you happen to remember. If _she_ has suspicions, this has to be a frame job."

Wilson grabbed him roughly by the arm, drawing him to a stop in front of a tacky adult bookstore. "Hey. I'm not saying I don't believe you, but you're treading delicate waters here. That's not exactly one of your better qualities."

House met his gaze, blue eyes curt and even. There was a level of severity in them that Wilson found difficult to ignore, and he had a hard time discounting House's suspicions. His instincts were, admittedly, generally correct.

House didn't waver. "Why do you think I made you tag along?"

Wilson sighed deeply; inwardly acknowledging that both House's attorney _and_ Cuddy would think this was a very bad idea. He knew Cuddy had not sent him along to be House's accomplice. She somehow believed that he was capable of curbing House's behaviour.

But he knew, had their situations been reversed, that House would have considered their friendship his topmost priority, ethical questions be damned. He nodded slowly, grudgingly letting House know that he had his full support.

He usually did.

House nodded, satisfied, and stepped firmly away from Wilson. "Excellent," he said, amiably. "Looks like it's time to call in at that Strip club after all."

0000000000000000000

"Dr. Cuddy? This is Sara Sidle, from the Las Vegas Crimelab. I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions about Gregory House?"

Grissom had given her the privacy of his office to make the call, which she duly appreciated. It was going to be difficult enough to gauge this woman's reactions without surveying her body language or facial expressions. She needed minimal distractions.

The Sheriff's office was breathing down his neck, and Sara could tell Grissom resented the additional pressure. His primary concern was apprehending the perpetrator and obtaining justice for the dead victim and his family. He had no interest in the political elements, an irritation she too, shared.

Their impending deadline made the investigation no easier. She didn't want to appear frantic in her conversation with House's boss, but her mounting anxiety was becoming difficult to suppress.

Cuddy sounded infinitely calm and professional on the other end of the line, and Sara imagined the woman who signed Greg House's paychecks would have to be extremely tolerant. "Of course. Go ahead."

One of the first things she had learnt as a CSI were that routine queries were best, in putting the questioned party at ease. She carefully cleared her throat. "How long has Dr. House worked at your hospital?"

"Eight years," Cuddy answered succinctly. "He's only headed his own department for the last several."

"Diagnostics, right?"

"Yes."

Sara pursed her lips, leaning back in Grissom's visitor's chair. "Have you… had many difficulties with him in that time?"

Cuddy surprised her, letting out a low, short laugh. "Have you _met_ Dr. House?" she rejoined easily. "If a day went by when he _wasn't_ difficult, I think I would go into early retirement."

Sara lifted an eyebrow, again intrigued by this impression of Dr. House as a physician. He strived to make people dislike him, and yet he seemed to have a surprising amount of support. "Then… why do you keep him employed?"

Cuddy heaved a deep sigh. "Look, Ms… Sidle. I'm not going to pretend that Dr. House isn't a challenging man," she admitted frankly. "He can be rude and off-putting to patients, and his ethical judgement has come into question on more than one occasion."

Sara frowned, unaccustomed to her brutal honesty. "But…?"

Cuddy sighed. "But he is a brilliant doctor and ultimately what he does, he does in the best interests of those around him. He isn't capable of murdering someone. He spends too much of his energy saving lives to end them."

Sara was again, mildly taken aback by this blatant display of loyalty for a man with such a seeming disregard for the human race. "Are you so sure about that?"

Cuddy barely hesitated. "I'd stake my own life on it." She paused for a moment. "You have to understand what his life has been like the last few years. His bitterness is the front of a very… emotionally crippled man. He has trouble trusting other people."

Sara felt a minor jolt in her stomach, at the familiarity of that observation. She cleared her throat, forcing her mind not to stray from the topic. "What about House's team? Dr. Chase and Dr. Cameron?"

"They're both compassionate, proficient doctors," she answered truthfully. "They would never jeopardise their careers by getting involved in anything like this."

Sara had to admit that she found this woman's directness oddly refreshing. She had a feeling that she ran her hospital with a high-handed, well-meaning hand, and it was nice to know that there were capable women out there in positions of power.

She tapped the edge of her pen against her chair, brow furrowing thoughtfully. "And their relationships with Dr. House?" she prompted attentively. "How would you describe them?"

For the first time in their conversation, Dr. Cuddy paused. Sara shifted slightly, finding this hesitation very intriguing.

"I suppose you could say that Dr. Chase feels like he has a lot to prove," Cuddy provided, at last.

"And I'm assuming House cultivates this attitude?"

"Well, yes. I don't think even he realises the strength of his bond with his team, but they're all very important to him." She exhaled slightly. "He pushes them because he recognises their potential. He knows what they're capable of."

"And Dr. Cameron?" Sara asked slowly.

It was a relationship she herself was, admittedly, kind of curious about. She was interested to hear what someone involved in their lives had to say about it.

Cuddy also seemed to realise where this line of questioning was headed, and measured her words cautiously. "Dr. Cameron is very loyal to House. They have a shaky relationship, but I think she knows she's indispensable to him."

That was an interesting way of putting it. Sara found her curiosity only peaked further, and tapped her fingers against Grissom's desk, drumming them along the smooth veneer. She had an open notepad in front of her, but she preferred to retain information, and write it down later.

Their conversation was giving Sara the impression that though Dr. Cuddy seemed oddly protective of Dr. House, she would tell the truth, when it was required. So she decided to ask the burning question.

"Have they ever been personally involved?"

"There was some interest, at least on her side," Cuddy answered evenly. "Nothing came of it."

Sara cocked an eyebrow. That certainly explained the unusual vibe she had picked up on between them. "Do you usually have such a lenient policy on inter-office relationships?"

Cuddy's confidence in her leadership abilities meant this question rolled harmlessly off her back. Sara was admittedly, kind of impressed. "I was willing to make an exception, in his case."

Despite her civility, there was a vague, underlying sense of hostility that seemed to be bubbling even closer to the surface. Sara pursed her lips, reluctantly determining that she would learn nothing more from the conversation. "Well, thank you for your time, Dr. Cuddy."

"I wasn't kidding, you know. I think your investigation is completely pointless."

Sara frowned, straightening slightly in her seat. Cuddy's blunt, curt tone reminded her vaguely of Catherine; a shaky workplace relationship that had made dealing with brisk corporate females a walk in the park in comparison. "I'll keep that in mind. I appreciate your cooperation."

She hung up, sliding her thumb absently over her mouth. She too, was convinced their investigation was travelling in the wrong direction, but she couldn't very well admit that to the hospital administrator. She sighed, unfolding her legs. The door opened gently, interrupting her train of thought.

Grissom eyed her expectantly. "How did it go?"

Sara swivelled slightly to regard him, feeling oddly out of place in her seat, while he stood at the door. He subconsciously leant against the doorframe, completing their unexpected positions of role-reversal. "His employer thinks he's difficult, but incapable of murder. An opinion that seems to be popular, at least among the people who know him."

Grissom sighed, discouraged. "It's certainly a possibility he's innocent. But the evidence seems to be telling a different story."

Sara narrowed her eyes, rising on the defensive. She knew if she pushed this for much longer, Grissom might question her ability to investigate this case, but she had never been one to back down from her convictions, and she wasn't about to start now. "What evidence, _exactly_? An unreliable tip and a discounted cane. We have no eyewitness accounts, no Rohypnol."

"We have an unsubstantiated alibi and an argument with the victim. I don't understand your willingness to overlook that, Sara."

"_I_ don't understand why you're so eager to lock this guy up. I'm actually seeing a lot of similarities between the two of you."

Oh. She had not just said that. She sighed, swiftly looking down and avoiding his eyes, and Grissom went silent in surprise.

"I fail to see what that has to do with anything," he said, at last.

Sara rose to her feet, clasping her notebook in one hand, allowing her eyes to drift defiantly up to his. Over-identifying was not a sound argument strategy. She knew that. "Nothing. It has nothing to do with it."

He pursed his lips, looking oddly tired. She wondered if he was getting sick of this mutual tug of war between them, or if he was even aware that they were playing.

"Greg found traces of the drug in an old bottle of Vicodin you found in his room," he said, quietly, at last. He didn't sound happy to report it. He met her gaze levelly, and something far more significant passed between them.

She swallowed. That was bad. Nearly as bad as a smoking gun.

"Sara, I'm sorry that you—"

She shook her head, closing her eyes and starting past him into the hall. She hated it when he proved her right. She really did.

0000000000000000000

"I've never heard of no Greg House. I got no idea what you're talking about. You gonna buy something, or you gonna leave?"

House and Wilson and their vigilante manhunt had led them to the backroom of Racy's Stripclub, with the odd, rhythmic thrum of techno music providing a hypnotic, muted soundtrack in the background.

It wasn't nearly as exciting as those TV shows made it look. House was finding that his money wasn't quite as persuasive as it had been back at the bar, either, and rapped his fingers impatiently against his cane.

Ronnie the snitch stared up at them without a smidgen of fear, which House supposed he could understand, if he had to look at the pair of them in a mirror. One a neat, cultured young guy with the word doctor written all over him; the other a bitter, scrawny middle-aged cripple leaning heavily on his cane.

Of course, Ronnie was also underestimating the true extent of his irritation, and House stepped forward, exuding impatience. "Yeah, okay, how about we pretend a little longer, because this is a really swell way to spend the rest of my morning. Or, how about we do things like this? I give you a little money, you tell me what you know, and I pretend like I never saw the van out the back stashed with illegal narcotics I'm guessing you imported from some backwater dealer in Cuba."

Ronnie frowned slightly, and House could see that he had taken this threat to heart. Obviously, he knew when to hide his supplies when the local police came by, but two anonymous doctors hadn't made a blip on his radar.

Until now.

"Someone paid me to give your description to the cops when they came by, okay, man?" he blurted. "I just did what he asked, you know?"

"Who?" Wilson spoke up, brow lifting noticeably.

House clenched his jaw, barely hiding his grim satisfaction. So he was right. Someone was trying to set him up. Wilson looked surprised to have some confirmation.

"I don't know, man. Some guy. I didn't get a name. I didn't ask for one."

"What did he look like?" House snapped.

Ronnie shifted on his old, beaten up sofa. He strained to remember. The effort looked physically painful. "Young, I guess. Twenty-ish. Ordinary looking. Dark eyes, dark hair."

"In other words, like half the Anglo-Saxon population of Las Vegas?" House snarked.

Ronnie scowled. "Hey, that's all I know, okay? A lot of people come in here. I don't remember what they all look like. Where's my money?"

House reached into his wallet, roughly tossing him a few bills. They flew in the air, scattering over his slouched form, and House turned, angrily throwing aside the beaded curtain.

Wilson followed him as he manoeuvred through the random assortment of tables in the muted, amber room. He didn't even look at the women dancing on stage, indicating how pissed off he truly was. The stifling, combined stench of cigarettes, sweat and alcohol didn't leave him until they stepped outside.

Wilson was silent; watching as House paced the length of the sidewalk, leg aching strongly. He kicked a loose can into the parking lot; clenching his cane so tightly his knuckles had turned white.

"Who do you think it is?"

House turned his searing glare onto his best friend, unable to believe that this was happening. Wilson didn't apologise for not believing him, and House didn't expect him to. His actions spoke far more strongly of his loyalty.

"You want to start a list? Chase was right, it could be anybody here. And I was _just_ starting to believe I might be likable."

"House…"

"_What_?" House snapped, losing his temper, stopping mid-step and glaring darkly at Wilson. "Do you have a solution to this? Is big-brother Wilson going to sweep in and save the day again? Yeah, didn't think so."

"Oh, don't _start_!" Wilson replied sharply, narrowing his eyes and surprising House with his uncharacteristic sign of anger. "The last thing that's going to help you right now is another descent into self-pity."

"Oh, well, I'm all ears, then. Tell me your big master plan. Here's hoping it involves fleeing to Mexico and a big, nasty bottle of tequila."

Wilson rolled his eyes, folding his arms. They were silent for a moment, their initial anger fading slightly.

"In case you've forgotten your own job description, you have a pair of highly qualified doctors with you who happen to solve puzzles for a living," he said tartly. "Maybe it's time to put those skills to good use."

House stared at him disbelievingly, but his suggestion was outrageous enough to actually appeal to him. "You do realise you're encouraging me to do something completely unethical here, don't you?" he said slowly.

Wilson scoffed tiredly. "Our excursion today doesn't count?"

House pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Cuddy's not going to like this."

"Since when do you care what Cuddy wants you to do?"

House smirked slowly. "Can we get a Mystery Machine and everything?"

"And he jokes," Wilson said, exasperatedly. "I'm glad it's only your life at stake here, otherwise I might be worried."

House felt a strange amount of newfound determination. "Back to the batcaves, Robin."

Wilson chuckled slightly. "Oh, yay. Batman metaphors. I can't wait to see what Cameron and Chase have to say about this."

"Would you prefer Scooby-Doo? You can be Velma. Chase would be a perfect Daphne."

Wilson sighed deeply. "Either way, we're in trouble."

0000000000000000000

_TBC_


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer:** See chapter one.

**Accused  
****Chapter ten**

House had discovered one very vital piece of information about Las Vegas. No one place was impervious to its tackiness. Even the local pancake parlour carried the distinct sleazy air he associated solely with the desert city.

He sat across from Wilson, diligently studying his friend as he fiddled with the saltshaker. Neither of them was eager to return to the hotel. Though they had resolved to get to the bottom of their mystery, they unanimously decided to discuss things over breakfast before they pitched their plan to Cameron and Chase.

The waitress placed their orders on the table, with a sugary smile Wilson politely returned. House barely glanced at her, slathering a bite-sized piece of his pancake in syrup, interrupted when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket.

He paused, tapping his finger against the fork. There were only so many people it could be, and none of them were anyone he particularly wanted to speak to.

He sighed deeply, catching Wilson's pointed look with annoyance, reluctantly digging out his phone. He checked the display before he flipped it open.

ALLISON CAMERON.

After their discussion in her room the night before, prolonging the need for any actual contact with her was fine with him. He rolled his eyes heavenward, allowing the exasperation to edge into his voice as he answered. "Checking up on me?"

She paused, sounding slightly taken aback in her response. "Don't you think you're giving people an even worse impression when you keep missing sessions?"

He sighed deeply, leaning back in the leather booth. Wilson eyed him idly, obviously guessing who it was. He chewed his own blueberry pancakes, resuming his absent fidgeting by shredding the edges of his napkin.

"Well unlike some people, I don't much care what people think of me," House snapped. "That was a pointed comment directed at you, by the way."

"Yeah, I got that," she said tartly. "Where are you?"

Her incessant need to know his every move was grating on his nerves. "Strip joint," he retorted. "Oh no, wait, that was this morning. We moved onto breakfast. Sex builds a hefty appetite."

She sighed, sounding tired and impatient. "The police came back," she said bluntly. "They're looking for you."

He involuntarily closed his eyes, wishing now more than ever that he had not answered his phone. "What now? More questioning? A trip to the gallows?"

Cameron completely missed his sarcasm. "I'm not sure. They wouldn't tell me. I told them I didn't know where you are. Which is true, but they wanted me to call them the second I heard from you."

That sounded distinctly ominous. He frowned tightly. "Sounds like they've got something."

"That's what Chase thought. Probably when they searched your room. Do you want me to call your lawyer?"

He narrowed his eyes, squinting down at his food. He could feel Wilson's eyes on him. Something in his tone must have indicated his annoyance.

"No. I'll do it."

She paused again. "Did you find anything?"

So she did know where he had been. That was interesting. He glanced across Wilson, wondering if he had called her when he had been in the bathroom. The oncologist lacked that telling guilt. Obviously, she just knew him a little too well.

"Yeah," he grunted, picking up his fork. "You were right."

Cameron sounded confused. "I don't understand what you…"

"I'm being set-up," he impatiently clarified. "Apparently someone paid the friendly neighbourhood drug-dealer to give the cops my name."

"Do you know… who it was?"

House scowled. "If I knew that, I wouldn't have this little imminent arrest problem on my hands, would I, Cameron?"

She was silent. He wondered if he had been too caustic. Then he wondered why he cared.

"It must be someone at the conference," she said, at last.

A subtle smirk pulled at his lips. Her tone had shifted almost instinctively to her analytical, doctor voice. Maybe it wasn't going to be so hard to get her on board after all.

"That's why I need you and Chase to do some sniffing around," he said easily.

Cameron was frowning. He could practically see it. "How do you expect us to do that?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Oh, I don't know, be _creative_. I didn't hire you to think inside the box. Wilson and I are going to do some more investigating of our own."

Wilson glanced up at this, frowning slightly.

Cameron sounded slightly uncertain, like she had already anticipated his response, but had decided to ask anyway. He wondered why she was so willing to martyrise herself sometimes. "Are you sure you don't want to… tell the police about this? Or those CSIs?"

House rolled his eyes. "With _what_ to back it up? I'm the bad guy, remember? And as my hot young attorney would say, I have the right to remain silent. I choose to exercise that right."

She sighed tiredly. "What if they come back?"

He didn't want to have to ask her to cover for him. He'd asked her to lie numerous times for him, when they had a case and he needed her to pacify a patient or their family. This was different. She questioned him, but she still did it, and that was the problem. Gil Grissom had been right about that.

She sensed his discomfort, and decided to answer herself. "I haven't heard from you."

He twirled his fork absently in his fingers. If she did it without him asking, it was her choice, wasn't it?

"That's my girl," he said flatly, flipping his phone closed, forcing himself not to dwell on the ethics of the matter.

Wilson lifted an eyebrow at him, and House took a bite of his breakfast, briefly savouring the taste. He reluctantly lifted his eyes. "I'd say we have about three more hours before I become a fugitive."

Wilson opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish. It was almost comical. "Excuse me?"

"Looks like they found something else to incriminate me with. So, got anymore tricks up your sleeve, Roy Rogers?"

Wilson hesitated. "You know, really, the best place to do more investigation is in the hotel."

House pursed his lips. "And yet, if I go back there, I have a feeling I won't be there long. Which is why Chase and Cameron are on it."

Wilson lifted an eyebrow, considering this carefully. "Maybe you need to think back to that night. I mean, really think about it. You must have seen something, someone who would have decided to choose you as a scapegoat."

House scowled. "And while that's such a helpful suggestion, I think my interrogation already covered that angle."

Wilson huffed out a deep sigh. "Okay. Fine. I think the real question here is, how many people have access to your room, besides the three of us? Order any hookers recently?"

House shot him a brief look. He could barely muster any offence; it was, normally, something he would probably do. "Sorry, the local girls don't run on my tab."

Wilson smiled slightly, wearily shaking his head. "Then again, with Cameron in the next room, you probably don't need to," he noted.

House frowned dangerously, and Wilson went on before the implication could properly fester. "Anyway— who else has a key to your room?"

House tilted his head slowly, a natural, thoughtful gesture. He couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it himself. He smirked slowly. "You're brilliant."

Wilson chuckled. "Yes, I've often thought so. This does mean we have to go back, though, you know."

House chewed his food slowly, prolonging his response. Finally, he sighed heavily. "If I get arrested, I'm expecting you to pay my bail."

Wilson smiled grimly. "I already pay everything else for you, don't I?"

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Cameron and Chase had, naturally, come to a similar conclusion.

The afternoon session had been cut short when the keynote speaker backed out due to food poisoning, offering the two of them the ideal opportunity to engage in their search.

The maids entered floors through a service elevator, and the two of them hesitated, Cameron slightly more than Chase, before they ducked inside.

Chase frowned before jabbing the button for the ground floor; safely assuming that this would lead them to the laundry room and staff quarters. The doors slid jerkily open, admitting them in a dim, murky service corridor.

Chase smirked in satisfaction. "Ha, see, what did I tell you?"

Cameron rolled her eyes, following him as he strode down the hall, manoeuvring around trolley carts mounded high with plain white sheets.

It hadn't taken much to convince Chase to do some investigation. She got the feeling she wasn't the only one feeling helpless. They were used to action, to wielding results— and sitting back while others made the decisions around them wasn't their preference.

Cameron knew they would look immediately out of place if they came upon someone in charge, and she only hoped they could question someone before that happened. She blinked as they rounded a corner, entering a carpeted, slightly brighter room, which seemed to be some sort of locker room.

There were only several maids there; one crouched over a bench, changing her shoes, and another, stacking something in her locker. Cameron glanced at Chase, who shrugged, striding over to the young Hispanic woman as she looped her shoelaces together. He cleared his throat, and she looked up, eyeing them both warily.

"Hi. We're sorry to bother you, but we were curious about something."

Cameron stifled a sigh when he immediately turned on all of his Aussie charm.

"Okay," the woman said, hesitantly, and she tried not to smile. His accent only seemed to help the image. There were times when it really did come in handy.

He gestured back at Cameron, frowning apologetically. "My girlfriend here just had something valuable stolen from her room, and we were wondering how easy it would be for someone to break in there." He lowered his voice slightly, rolling his eyes long-sufferingly. "She insisted we come down here and ask. It's an old heirloom her mum gave her. I told her she probably _lost_ it, but she's a bit… paranoid."

Cameron narrowed her eyes at him, but it only served to prove his point. The woman smiled faintly, quickly averting her eyes from Cameron's and gazing up at Chase. "Well, only maids assigned to a floor have access to those rooms," she answered kindly.

He nodded, looking thoughtful. "Okay, so let's say, hypothetically," he sighed pointedly at Cameron here, as if she was incredibly high maintenance. "…that someone else could get access to those rooms. How would they do it?"

She frowned. "Well, I suppose if they really wanted to… They could steal one of the staff keycards. But they would have to know someone on that floor to know which one they needed."

Her face contorted, and she eyed Chase uneasily, as if realising what she was suggesting. "But it's never happened before," she back-peddled hastily. "We have very strict security and surveillance."

He nodded, smiling apologetically. "See, honey?" he said, feigning his best I-told-you-so voice as he glanced back at Cameron. "I told you you lost it."

Cameron rolled her eyes, grudgingly playing along. "Whatever."

She saw Chase smirk, but he quickly hid it, turning back to face the woman. "I'm sorry we bothered you. Thank you very much for your help."

She smiled. "No problem."

Footsteps shuffled behind Cameron, and she gazed around as a young man dressed in a concierge uniform entered the room. He frowned at them, taking note of their casual clothing. "Hey, you're not supposed to be down here."

Chase inched backwards, grabbing Cameron's arm and steering her quickly through the door. "And we're leaving right now. Sorry."

They kept up a brisk pace, and the man glared after them, but he didn't attempt to follow them. Cameron only hoped they hadn't gotten the young maid in trouble. She glanced over at Chase, who eyed her pointedly, gradually releasing his hold on her arm. "Well. That certainly makes things interesting."

Cameron nodded in agreement, and they turned the corner, nearing the old fashioned elevator. She had never doubted House, but it was certainly nice to have their suspicions verified. "Yeah," she murmured softly. "Definitely."

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Sara stood silently in the elevator beside Brass, watching the numbers light up above the doors. Grissom leant against the wall on his other side, lips pursed impassively.

The car ride over had been silent and tense, and Sara didn't know whether it was pride, or something else all together that prevented her from apologising to him.

Her certainty in her instincts had been severely shaken, and she folded her arms over her LVPD vest, retrieving her kit at her feet when the doors slid open.

The front desk had called after having spotted Greg House and his anonymous colleague returning to the hotel. The call had not come from either of his doctors, but then she hadn't really expected it to. Guilty or not, there was a level of airtight loyalty between allies.

An officer was already waiting upstairs, standing in the hallway near House's door. She and Grissom stood by silently as Brass rapped curtly on the red wood.

They didn't have to wait long.

House eyed them levelly, lacking the surprise he should have exhibited; confirming her suspicions that at least one of his team had been in contact with him.

Brass tone was flat. "Gregory House. You're under arrest for the murder of Paul Goodard."

House didn't even blink. "Bit blunt for a greeting."

Brass barely wavered, gesturing the officer behind him. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can be used against you in a court of law."

His colleague, the dark haired man she assumed to be oncologist James Wilson, emerged from the room behind him, as House limped out into the hall.

"You can't be serious?" he said, abruptly, features crinkled in a frown. "On what grounds?"

"We found traces of Rohypnol in an empty bottle of prescription medication found in Dr. House's room," Grissom spoke up. "His fingerprints were the only ones on it."

Wilson scoffed. "Oh, and I'm assuming gloves aren't a rational alternative?"

House was uncharacteristically silent, resisting far less than his friend, who seemed to be more vociferous in his denial. The officer moved forward to cuff him, and House glanced up, steadily meeting her gaze. "Unless you want the walk downstairs to be a struggle, you might want to save that for later." He jiggled his cane for emphasis, and Sara nodded slowly at the officer to back off. It wasn't like he was going to run.

"You have the right to an attorney," Brass continued; steady in the face of Wilson's angry opposition.

Wilson shook his head, interrupting him flatly. "You can't do this."

The doors at the end of the hall opened, and Sara glanced around when she saw a flash of blonde hair, realising that Chase and Cameron had emerged from the elevator.

Brass's annoyance showed on his face, sensing the coming commotion. "Unless you want to make this into even more of an exhibition than it already is, you'll move now."

Cameron opened her mouth in shock when she saw what they were doing, halting apprehensively behind Grissom. "What are you doing?"

Brass swivelled his head to look at her, scowling deeply. "Dr. Cameron, you're going to have to move out of the way."

Cameron opened her mouth, eyes sweeping over House, and he met her gaze, mutely shaking his head. Chase fixed a hand on her elbow, dragging her back a few steps, and Brass moved forward, making it clear House was to go with them.

House paused only for a second, striding forward with his cane. He seemed resigned to the situation, lacking his standard sarcasm.

Cameron wheeled on Sara and Grissom disbelievingly, who remained still, watching as House was guided down the hall. "Why are you doing this? You know he didn't do anything."

Grissom's face was still impassive, though she could see he was surveying Cameron perceptively, inwardly making his own evaluation of her character. She realised it was the first time he had actually seen her.

"The evidence tells another story."

Wilson scoffed, clearly unimpressed, clenching his jaw where he stood, half in and out of the doorway. "Please. Evidence means nothing without a person behind it."

Sara sighed deeply, dismayed by her own inner agreement to that statement. "We're going to have to search your rooms as well." She removed the crisp white warrant from the pocket of her vest, holding it in the air between them.

The three of them still seemed slightly shell-shocked by House's sudden arrest, but this request only added to the atmosphere of tension.

Cameron flinched in disbelief, and Chase's face contorted angrily. "You can't just go around invading our privacy like this, and twisting it to fit your theory."

Grissom barely reacted to their collective anger. It was a reaction they were accustomed to. "I can assure you that we can. And we aren't twisting anything."

"Right," Wilson snorted.

Sara straightened slightly, pressing her lips together in a grim line. "I'm sorry, but if you refuse, we can also have you arrested."

Cameron huffed, and Chase gave a snide sound of protest. Wilson reached into the pocket of his slacks, retrieving his key card. He held it forward flatly. "Go ahead."

Sara took it, glancing vaguely down at the room number. She was conflicted, but it seemed her initial instincts had been wrong about the situation. She wasn't about to make that mistake again.

"Please wait out in the hall. And you might want to contact your attorney."

Wilson was silent, and neither Cameron nor Chase had anything else to add.

Things were already bad enough.

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_TBC_


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer:** See chapter one.  
**Author's Note:** Again, apologies for the wait. Not a lot happens this chapter excitment wise, but it is neccessary for the plot. I just want to know if you guys think it's working. If they are any inconsistencies, whatever, I'm all ears. For all of you still with me, you deserve, like, cookies or something. Seriously grins

**Accused  
****Chapter eleven**

"I can't _believe_ this."

Cameron's eyes silently tracked Wilson's progress as he stalked the length of the hall. Chase was also quiet, leaning against the wall, arms folded glumly. Their rooms were being individually searched, and there was nothing they could do to stop it. House's attorney had advised them to just 'keep out of the way'. Like they had something to hide.

Cameron was starting to worry that they did.

She and Chase had just managed to explain the valuable information they had gathered to an agitated Wilson. His reaction wasn't exactly confidence inspiring. She had assumed he would have a solution to this. If House didn't, Wilson usually did. In the hospital, they were the boulders of information, and it was disheartening to have that assurance ripped away.

"What we really need is a list of all of the maids assigned to our floor," Chase spoke up, shifting his eyes between them thoughtfully.

Wilson looked at him impatiently. "Yeah, sure, in theory. Any idea on how we can get that information?"

Chase frowned. "If it was up to House—"

"Well, it isn't up to House," Wilson interrupted flatly. "House isn't here. He's probably enjoying the interior of a nice holding cell as we speak."

Chase scowled. "Are you saying we should just give up? We're perfectly capable of solving this without his help."

"We need Foreman," Cameron muttered dejectedly.

Chase blinked, and Wilson frowned at her. It was her first contribution to the conversation. She was slumped on the floor with her back to the wall and her legs stretched out in front of her. The dim lighting in the stylish hallway cast shadows over their faces, as Wilson and Chase directed their gazes down at her.

"This isn't a medical puzzle," Wilson said, frowning deeply.

Cameron squinted up at him. "No, but House wanted us to look into this for a reason. Isn't this what you suggested? We work well together as a team. And we aren't a team without Foreman."

"Or House," Wilson reminded her, not without a certain level of gentleness.

Cameron frowned, looking down at the floor.

Chase cleared his throat. "I hate to say it, but she's right," he admitted, after a moment. "We need all the help we can get. And I'm starting to think legal means aren't going to cut it."

"We could tell the police about the drug dealer," Cameron said uncertainly. "They might believe us."

"We can't bank House's life on a 'might'," Wilson replied tiredly, leaning against the wall opposite her. "This is the only leverage we have. We need to make sure we're right before we give them this information. We need hard proof."

"Which brings us back to where we started," Chase said matter-of-factly.

A thoughtful frown touched on Wilson's face. "Well… this is a medical conference," he said, after a pause. A slow smile pulled at his mouth and he straightened from against the wall. "I think it's time we start using our resources properly."

Cameron slanted an eyebrow, and Chase looked at him, askance.

Chase spoke first. "What the hell are you talking about?"

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Half an hour later, the three of them manned control of an empty conference room.

They had no way of knowing if the authorities had finished searching their rooms, but their presence wasn't required. An officer knew where they were. He just thought they were involved in something for the conference.

A roll-up whiteboard was hidden behind a projection screen at the front of the room, and Wilson arranged it carefully, glancing down at Cameron and Chase. The dejection was clear on their faces, in the slump of their shoulders as they sat at the very end of the long table, watching him silently. It was a mock set-up of their usual work environment, and it acted to liven them slightly, but only slightly.

He wanted to remind them what was at stake here. Whether or not their relationships with him were entirely amiable, House played a vital role in their lives, and without him it was… unimaginable.

There was also, conveniently, a conference phone placed strategically in the middle of the table. Cameron dragged it over and dialled the Diagnostics Department, tapping her fingers edgily on the table.

There was a collective sense of relief when Foreman's static voice filled the silence of the room.

"Diagnostics."

Cameron answered first. "Foreman, hi. It's Cameron."

"Oh, hey. You could have called my cell, you know."

"We wanted to make sure you were in the office," Wilson spoke up.

Foreman paused. "Wilson? Is that you?"

Wilson leant against the wall at the front of the room. "Yeah. And Chase is here too."

"Hey," Chase said unnecessarily.

Foreman scoffed. His voice grew rich with grim understanding. "Okay. I'm guessing something bad has happened to House, or he would have piped up by now."

"He was arrested," Cameron said shortly.

Foreman was silent only a second. Wilson got the feeling that he hadn't actually been expecting that to happen. None of them had expected things to get this far.

"Obviously this has just happened, or I'd be hearing it from Cuddy."

Wilson nodded, even though he couldn't see him. Cuddy wasn't going to take this well, but he would have to handle that situation later. "Things have gotten a little beyond our control."

"No kidding. I thought you went over there to fix this mess."

Wilson frowned, but he knew it wasn't intended as an insult. "Yeah, well, things didn't really turn out that way."

"Someone is framing House," Chase said, abruptly cutting into their discussion. His mounting impatience was obvious. "We need your help to figure it out."

Foreman blew out a lengthy sigh. He took a moment to digest this. "Are you sure?"

A defensive scowl took over Cameron's features, and she leant forward on her palms, glaring down at the speaker. "Are you saying that you think he's _guilty_?"

"No," Foreman replied, quickly pacifying her. "Of course not. I meant how exactly do you know that someone is framing him?"

"We did a little digging," Wilson said evenly. "So we need your help."

Again, the pause on the other end of the line was considerable. At last, he sighed. "Listen, I'm not trying to… condemn him, here, but maybe House _is_ hiding something. Everybody lies, right? What makes you think we can solve this if the police can't even figure out the truth?"

Cameron and Chase paused, unwillingly avoiding each other's eyes. Even they looked doubtful. Wilson scowled. He was getting tired of this whole situation.

"Look" he said sharply. "I know House isn't perfect. I know he's never done a lot to instil loyalty, but I think you guys can all agree that you trust him. If any one of you were in this situation, he would do everything he could to get you out of it. You're his team, and he'll probably never tell you so, but he chose all of you for a damn good reason. Think about it. I'm going to go and see if I can sort out House's bail."

He turned and pushed through the conference door, mindful of the pregnant silence filling the room behind him.

Chase folded his arms over his chest, and was the first to break it. "He's right," he said, dejectedly.

Foreman exhaled loudly on the other end of the line. "Yeah."

"Though I think House would call his speech a little melodramatic," Chase added.

Cameron smirked, and Foreman's low snicker could be heard. He coughed, and the comment somehow managed to alleviate the increasing sense of tension in the room. "Okay. So, tell me what you know."

Cameron told him about the drug dealer, and Chase explained their enlightening chat with one of the hotel maids. Foreman was silent as he digested all of this.

"So what you really need is a list of all the maids with access to House's room."

"That's what I said," Chase muttered defensively.

Cameron, who had risen sometime during their discussion and was now pacing the length of the room, let out an impatient sigh. "But even then, we need to know which one of them might have leant their key to someone else. And I doubt they're going to admit something like that, when they could lose their job over it."

Foreman piped up in a thoughtful voice. "Not necessarily."

Cameron paused mid-step, eyeing the phone warily. "What do you mean?"

"Well, all you really need is the name of the maids required to work _that_ day. That narrows it down a little, don't you think?

"And how are we going to get that?"

Foreman sounded resigned. "I hate to be encouraging one of House's methods, but breaking and entering usually works. You've already been down there once. Sounds pretty likely they'd have a time sheet or shift schedule, right?"

Chase lowered his head to the table, like he couldn't believe he hadn't thought of that before. "Of course they would."

Cameron beamed. "See, this is why we called you."

Foreman chuckled. "Happy to help."

Chase slowly rolled his head to the side, so that his floppy blonde hair flicked over his eyes. He regarded Cameron for a moment, conveying the severity behind his gaze. "We might have to face the fact that there's only so far we can go with this. It's going to be pretty hard to establish a connection between the guy who paid off the drug dealer, and one of the maids who might have leant him her card."

Cameron cocked an eyebrow, as a thought unexpectedly struck her. "Unless… he _works_ here."

Chase slowly straightened, and Foreman was silent for a long time. "That actually makes a lot of sense."

Cameron's eyes widened. "But why would somebody who works here want to frame House?"

Chase scoffed. "Maybe he left them a nasty tip. Or you know, they just met the guy."

Cameron rolled her eyes. Foreman patiently cleared his throat. "If you're going to go to this much trouble, you're not going to do it alone. You're going to collaborate. You're going to pay people to do your dirty work for you."

"And this is Vegas," Chase noted. "Home of the corruptible."

Foreman hesitated. His voice carried a level of foreboding logic that came from being indirectly involved. "Listen, guys… I really think you need to be careful here. If this person is going to such extreme lengths to frame House for murder, you don't know what they're willing to do."

Cameron glanced down at the edge of the glossy table, and Chase shifted awkwardly in his seat. Silence momentarily fell between them.

"We should see if Wilson has had any luck," Chase suggested slowly.

Cameron nodded, glancing down at the phone. "Foreman… we'll get back to you when we find out more information."

His voice, when it came back, suddenly sounded very far away. "Okay. I'll be at home if I'm not here. Just… remember what I said."

"Yeah," Chase muttered. "We will." He hit the disconnect button, and the two of them looked at each other for a moment, before they started for the door. Cameron didn't think the reality of the situation had ever hit them quite as strongly as it had now.

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Three hours in a holding cell and two in a musty, cramped interrogation room had done a lot for House's perspective.

He sat on the low, dingy cot, bad leg trailing over the edge, cane abandoned on the hard space beside him. The lighting was dim, and it was impossible to tell what time it was without his watch, which he hadn't bothered to look at since they brought him back.

Their questions were going around in circles, and he could sense their mounting frustration. Boo hoo for them. He was tired and in pain. They had confiscated his Vicodin until he convinced them that he needed it, and even then they had only given him a customary dose before stashing the bottle away with his other meagre belongings.

He knew possession of Rohypnol wasn't enough to keep him locked up for the murder charge they wanted him for, but he didn't mean things weren't looking grim. His lawyer knew her stuff, but that didn't mean she could get him out of the situation. The evidence was pretty damning.

He had neglected to mention his own little investigation to the CSIs and Detective Brass, because he knew empty claims weren't going to help him. Nevertheless, it meant that they detected that he was keeping something from them, and they didn't trust him. Which was just wonderful.

He wasn't the type of man to regret things. Yet he couldn't help wondering if he had done certain things differently; perhaps things wouldn't have turned out the way they had.

He became aware of a shadow falling over the grimy floor, and lifted his head as his cell door rattled and an officer appeared. He looked hardened and aged well beyond his years, and eyed House dully.

"You made bail."

House didn't bother saying anything; even he knew when to give it up. Instead, he grasped his cane, sliding off the edge of the cot and feeling it groan as it lost his weight.

Wilson was waiting for him in the lobby. He looked suitably grim and silent, and House offered him a jerky nod before accepting the small box of his personal effects. He knew the kind of money Wilson would have had to fork over to get him out. And his freedom wouldn't be long lasting, either. For once, the first thing he intended on doing if he ever got out of this, would be to pay him back in full.

He followed him silently out of the police station, into the quiet, darkened parking lot, interrupted only by the steady, distant rush of traffic.

"No greeting party, huh? My feelings are almost hurt."

Wilson glanced at him tiredly. He looked somewhat like House felt. "Chase and Cameron are being questioned."

An unexpected spark of annoyance ran through House. He'd heard they had spoken to Cuddy, and now they were invading his whole team. "I hope all that training did the trick, then. Those two can't lie to save their jobs."

Wilson sighed deeply. "Neither can you, for the record."

"Yeah, I'm guessing this off-the-books stuff is going to grate with The Man."

They reached Wilson's rental car, and House felt a distinct sense of deja vu, to be in this same position for the second time in twenty-four hours.

Wilson glanced at him over the roof of the car. "Your guys have developed an interesting theory."

House actually had to hide his surprise as he climbed into the passenger seat. "The kids are doing all they can to save Daddy, huh? I'm touched."

Wilson barely gave him a look. They both knew he had a certain fondness for his team, though he would never actually admit it. "They think someone is paying off employees at the hotel to do their dirty work for them. Planting the drugs in your room, bribing the dealer we spoke to..."

House was impressed. "Makes sense," was all he said, gruffly.

Wilson nodded, starting the ignition. "Which means this is a lot more personal than we thought it was."

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_TBC_


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer:** See chapter one.

**Author's Note:** What? No, you're _not_ hallucinating, I _am_ actually updating.I apologise, yet again,for the wait. I'm sorry if the CSI aspects of this chapter seem a little aimless- I'm sort of edging my way back into writing for that show after such a long break, and I feel like I'm out of practice. And I know where I'm going on this- I really think you'll like the direction- it's just the _getting_ there that's the trouble. So your thoughts, I would appreciate. And I will give you lots and lots of cookies for sticking with me after so long.

**Accused  
****Chapter twelve**

"How well do you _really_ know your boss, Dr. Cameron?"

Cameron stared back at them, and her features remained carefully poised. She was refusingto give away any of the conflicting emotions he was certain she was currently feeling, and to her credit she was handling the situation with her professionalism fully intact. He had seen plenty of people crack under less.

Grissom studied her thoughtfully, intrigued by her seemingly icy demeanour. He was growing increasingly interested in House as their case went on, and understanding his relationships was only part of understanding the man himself.

Brass ticked an eyebrow in silence, leaning forward in his chair. It creaked slightly under his added weight. "Perhaps I should rephrase that question. How _sure_ are you that you know where your boss was the hour he was unaccounted for?"

"I'm sure he was in his hotel room," she answered succinctly.

The bright examination room cast shadows over her face as she defiantly tilted her chin, and Grissom glimpsed some of her inner determination. Her loyalty to the man was odd in itself. He had seen nothing in him that inspired that kind of reaction, yet she was immovable in her conviction.

He was also more than certain she was hiding something.

Brass seemed to think so, too, and had developed a gentle, even tone when addressing her. He seemed to think her outer fragility extended within, as well. Grissom wasn't so sure. He didn't think Brass would coerce anything from her that way, but it was certainly worth a try.

He had briefly considered allowing Sara to question her, but he had the nagging suspicion she was starting to over-identify with some of the people involved in the case. He could certainly glimpse some of the similarities between herself and Cameron.

And she, for whatever reason, seemed to believe there was some sort of similarity between House and himself.

Which was ridiculous. He saw nothing in himself of the other man. Their shared isolation from people sparked from completely different aspects of their personalities. There was no sense in attempting to match the two.

And contrary to what Sara believed, he did value her empathy, and often envied her ability to understand victims and their loved ones on the human level that she did. But at the same time, he was concerned that her empathy would be the demise of her career. She needed to learn how to harness it.

Brass folded his arms earnestly on the steel table, and Grissom recognised the instant he decided he needed to change tactics. He remained silent, content for him to steer the interview.

"House… seems like he'd be a pretty tough boss, am I wrong?"

Cameron shifted in her seat, obviously uncertain how she should handle this change in subject. "I guess you could say that."

"And your fellowship is one of the top positions in the country, isn't it?"

Cameron nodded slowly. "Yes."

Grissom got the impression that she was used to being evaluated against her youth and beauty, and being forced to defend it. It was tragic, but a sad case of life, that women with her appearance weren't taken all that seriously. There were people like Catherine who thrived on that impression, who wielded it to their advantage and demanded others respect. He couldn't see Dr. Cameron being quite that domineering or manipulative.

At the same time, her moral compass seemed to commandeer her behaviour. If she was protecting House, she obviously thought she had a reason. Naiveté like that was often difficult to penetrate.

"Now I don't really know how the medical world works, but I'm guessing you have to be pretty smart to get that kind of job," Brass mused, intentionally goading her. "And when you're there, it's natural to assume you want to establish… connections, don't you? Someone as famous as House is bound to have a few. Like at this conference, for example. This whole business must have been hell on your reputation. You've probably been snubbed by some of the top doctors in the country, just for being associated with House."

Cameron frowned slightly, a subtle crease in her brow. Grissom could see almost immediately that they weren't going to turn her against him. Not by appealing to her ambitions. "You're the people who are doing that, not House."

Brass lifted an eyebrow, pressing his lips together somewhat irritably. "You're loyal. I think that's very admirable." He paused, eyeing her carefully. "But has he ever actually thanked you for it?"

Cameron was silent, and he nodded knowingly, latching onto this noticeable flaw. "Getting recognition from a guy like him would be hard, wouldn't it? Personally, I would have given in a long time ago. But not you. You're still here, still with him."

He pursed his lips grimly. "Do you ever wonder if maybe you're just protecting him from himself?"

Irritation edged onto her pretty features. "I trust House. I know what you're trying to do, and you're wasting your time. I am not protecting him. If I believed that he'd done something wrong, I would have told you so."

"Your loyalty suggests otherwise," Grissom finally said, meeting her green eyes.

Cameron frowned at him, shaking her head. She looked almost insulted, but there was something else under her gaze, something resembling… guilt. "You think I have something to hide?"

He shrugged calmly, inviting her to reveal herself. "It's not out of the question. According to one of your colleagues, you and House have a relationship more… personal in nature. Is that true?"

She was silent for a long moment, and he saw the hesitation and discomfort in her posture. Obviously it was a sensitive issue for her. That certainly proved her loyalty went deeper than a simple working relationship. "That's over now."

"But you did have one?"

She frowned. "I don't think he would see it that way."

Brass straightened slightly, expression suggesting he thought his prior opinion had just been confirmed. "Sounds like you want his attention to me."

Cameron narrowed her eyes. "Then you're misreading the entire situation."

He smiled grimly, smugness in his eyes. "Now, why don't I believe that?"

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"You and Dr. Cameron seem to share something in common. You both want the validation of a boss who just doesn't give a damn," Brass started, almost tauntingly. "Seems to me you might do almost anything to get it, too."

Chase glared back at them stoically, arms folded steadily over his chest. "Well, you thought wrong."

Sara pursed her lips as she surveyed Dr. Chase's interrogation through the glass wall. Grissom was sitting beside Brass, surveying the proceedings in silence, taking the opportunity to get his own handle on the situation.Gauging their characters. It was a tactic that usually worked for him, and she wondered what his opinions were on the different doctors.

Chase wasn't budging anymore than Cameron had, which wasn't really a surprise. She sensed an added determination in him to uphold his silence though, which was interesting, though not particularly relevant to their case.

The door creaked slightly as someone entered from the hall, and she craned her neck as Nick strode casually into the room.

"Hey."

"Hey," she replied, noting the way he was surveying her as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

The high profile case had caused more than enough interest in the lab, but she knew it wasn't the reason Nick and Catherine kept conveniently swinging by to check on their progress. Any case that caused friction between herself and Grissom was cause for curiosity in their book. Warrick was usually a little subtler if he wanted information, and Greg had no need to go fishing when he already had the facts.

Sometimes she thought they were all just standing by, waiting for their relationship to finally implode. They weren't the only ones.

"Guess none of them are talking, huh?"

Sara spared him another glance, shrugging her shoulders. "Would you expect them to? He is their boss."

"Not a very good one, from what I hear."

She looked straight ahead. "Grissom isn't always the best boss either. Doesn't mean we would just sell him out like that."

Nick folded his arms silently, and she knew they were both thinking of the promotion debacle, so long ago now.

"I thought you weren't driving for his innocence anymore," he said at last, instead of acknowledging her bitter remark. "Didn't you find hard proof that there were traces of Rohypnol in his hotel room?"

Sara frowned. "I'm not."

She couldn't afford to be sceptical anymore. Greg House had seemingly duped her, and she wasn't about to let her feelings fool her again. Grissom's reliance on the evidence might seem like a shaky faith to her at times, but it was right more times that not. And it was all they had.

"I'm just saying that trying to crack his team members isn't going to get us anywhere. We need something else."

Nick lifted an eyebrow, turning to her, leaning against the observation glass ledge. "Like what? Seems like your evidence is drying up fast, and the Sheriff wants an easy solve. At this point, I think you've got all you're going to get."

She wondered if working for Catherine was starting to cloud his judgement on office politics. "The Rohypnol wasn't enough to hold House, and his lawyers could easily argue it in court," she replied pointedly. "We need something more concrete."

"I'm not arguing your point, Sar, but like I said; what else are you going to use?"

She pursed her lips, staring ahead stoically. "I don't know."

Nick sighed deeply, and when he spoke again, his tone was far more cautious. Like he was expecting her to snap. "Sara… I don't mean to interfere here, but this isn't coming from anger over the fact that Grissom proved you wrong, is it?"

Sara narrowed her eyes, annoyed that he would accuse her of bias. "It's about the _case_, Nick. If he's guilty, we need to prove it."

He looked doubtful. "Right. Well, if you want my advice... just let it go. You've got enough to run with, and Grissom seems satisfied."

She swivelled to face him. "I can admit that I was wrong, okay? But if he is guilty, I want indisputable proof. I'm not about to put a man away for murder on anything less. Don't tell me Grissom is, either. Not that much has changed."

He held his hands up in a universal backing-off gesture. "Okay. Okay, you're right."

She nodded, struggling poorly to conceal her scowl, returning her attention to the glass. She hated that her colleagues were starting to distrust her professional judgement. Which was why it was so important that they solve this case in time.

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"That was just ridiculous," Chase grumbled sullenly, following Cameron as they weaved their way through the majestic lobby. He had kept up his barely audible rant from the police station to the hotel, and Cameron let him complain, remaining silent the whole time.

She didn't like the residual feelings of guilt and discomfort that lingered after they questioned her. Like she had done something wrong. She had suspended her moral beliefs many times since coming to work for House, and she wasn't idealistic enough to truly believe that his actions were still motivated by some inherent goodness. But he was still a good man, deep inside. She prided herself on being someone who _did_ do what was right, and she hated that they were questioning that. And she hated that they were questioning him.

The elevator admitted them to their floor, and Chase finally gave up, walking silently beside her. She knew he was feeling an added pressure to prove his loyalty to House, after what had happened with Vogler, and though she didn't exactly pity him that, she was glad to see him rising to the challenge.

They neared her room, and she frowned when she spotted a yellow post-it taped to the door, with messy scrawl accompanying it. She stopped, removing it warily.

CONFERENCE ROOM

"Maybe Wilson got something new," Chase suggested, but he sounded unenthusiastic at the prospect.

They tacitly agreed to see what he wanted.

The room they had gained access to a few hours earlier was still open, and they weren't worried about being questioned by other members of the conference at this late hour. After consulting her watch, Cameron realised it was nearly two a.m.

Chase strode in ahead of her, and she thudded into his back when he stopped abruptly in the doorway. "_Ow_, Chase. What are you doing?"

She stepped around him, frowning at him irritably, and blinked when she turned to the front of the room.

House stood in front of the whiteboard, cane hooked on the edge of the table. Notes were scrawled across it in his familiar hand. For a brief moment, it felt like they were back in Princeton, discussing a routine case, and the chaos in Vegas had never happened.

"House!" she exclaimed.

He looked at them, and rolled his eyes, but she thought she caught a faint glimmer of fondness. "Oh, you're not going to _hug_ me, are you?"

Wilson sat at the table across from him, and shook his head. "What a touching reunion."

Cameron struggled poorly to hide her smile, taking the seat beside him. Chase shook his head, taking a moment to absorb the shock, gradually slumping into a seat at the other end of the table. He pulled the chair out opposite him and rested his feet on it gingerly. "Nice to see you back. Not in prison."

House inclined his head. "Hmm. Definitely a bonus. All the interesting stuff happens in the ladies' prison, anyway."

Cameron slowly scanned what he had written on the board, which was basically just a summary of what they already had.

"So. Either of you squeal?"

Chase looked mildly put out when House gave him a pointed look, and Cameron sighed. "They… know we're hiding something," she conceded reluctantly. Feeling inexplicably guilty over that fact. Like she had let him down. "They just assume we're involved in whatever it is they think you did."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Wonderful. We're all accomplices. I'm starting to seriously question my faith in the American justice system."

"Starting?" House retorted.

"Anyway," Chase said lengthily, lolling his head back on the seat. "Before we were so rudely interrupted, I think we all agreed that what we really need to do is get our hands on a copy of the maid's roster sheet."

"Excellent," House said, lifting an eyebrow. "All those in favour of Chase completing said mission?"

He pointedly lifted his hand. Wilson and Cameron didn't move, until Wilson slowly shrugged and nodded. Cameron rolled her eyes, but failed to protest.

Chase opened his mouth in protest. "Why _me_?"

"You've already been down there once," House concluded pleasantly. "You know the way."

Chase scoffed at this reasoning. "Cameron's been down there, too."

"Yeah, but unless Cameron wants to try out her lesbian wiles- which I would be all for, by the way- you're going to be much more effective. Must be that good old Aussie charm. Either that or the hair."

Chase scoffed, but after a moment he shuffled out of his chair and started for the door. Cameron watched him go, noting the tired slump in his shoulders. She didn't think she could remember the last time she had slept herself.

Wilson exhaled loudly as he leant back in his chair, as if somehow reading her thoughts. "Well, there's not a lot we can do tonight. Maybe we should get some sleep."

"And miss the excitement of Chase's latest tales of woe?" House responded caustically. "I think not. I'll stay here, thank you."

Wilson shrugged, glancing questioningly at Cameron. She sighed. "I... think I'll stay here a little while, too."

Wilson looked like he was going to admit defeat and let his guilt force him into staying, but a yawn pulled at his mouth, and House waved a dismissive hand. "Go and get your beauty sleep. The boy-wonder oncologist is used to his nine til five routine. He's forgotten what it's like to keep _real_ doctor hours."

Wilson narrowed his eyes, but he rose to his feet nonetheless. "In the morning, I'll probably resent that."

"Probably," House agreed.

Wilson shook his head as he wearily departed the room, and House twirled the whiteboard marker carelessly in his hand. Cameron watched the exchange thoughtfully; taking note of the odd way the two men seemed to exchange affection.

The door closed softly behind Wilson, and Cameron's eyes inched slowly over in House's direction. She realised rather awkwardly that this was the first time they had been left alone together since their conversation in her room the other night.

House met her gaze, then looked away, turning his attention back to the whiteboard as if the answer would suddenly come to him, as it often did with their patients.

"If this is some misguided attempt at showing me your loyalty, you don't need to bother," he murmured gruffly, staring straight ahead. "You can go get some sleep. Chase probably won't be back for a while, and we won't be able to do anything else until morning."

Cameron shrugged, even though he couldn't see her, tracing her index finger faintly over the glossy table. "It's not," she said. "I just don't think I _can_ sleep."

"The hidden yawns and glassy eyes tell another story," he rejoined, lowering the cap back on the marker and replacing it on the ledge.

Cameron ignored the pointed remark, unwilling to leave at that moment. She wasn't lying- she was exhausted, but far too wired to sleep, and she knew the last few hours had played hell with her internal body clock. They tended to be spoiled a little more than other doctors in their small department, and she was usually out the door and home for the night at a reasonable hour every day.

And, she could admit to herself, she was also reluctant to leave House alone. After the accusations and unrelenting investigation he had endured, he at least needed to know that there were still people behind him. Even if he didn't really want to.

House retrieved his cane, studying the whiteboard silently, tapping his fingers vaguely over the curve of the handle. She was also quiet, sitting back in her chair and folding her arms over her chest.

His voice was low when he finally spoke. "I don't need a babysitter, Cameron."

She chewed her lip, eyeing him carefully. "Sometimes people just care, House," she said quietly. "There don't have to be strings."

He turned around, gazing at her thoughtfully. After a measured silence, he nodded shortly. She thought it might be the closest to an apology she had ever gotten from him.

Right now, it was more than enough.

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	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: **See chapter one.  
**Author's Note: **Thank you so much to everyone who gave me feedback for the last chapter. I _really_ appreciate it. I'm so glad you're all still reading and enjoying.  
(_hands out cookies as promised)_

**Accused  
Chapter thirteen **

His knuckles grazed the door briefly before he drew in a deep sigh, and knocked with more purpose. There was only a minor pause before House heard shuffling on the other side, and Cameron appeared, already dressed for the day.

She looked slightly surprised to see him, and he was a little bemused at his actions himself.

Chase had given him the maid's roster the night before with nary a remark about the trials he had gone through to get it- House was starting to think he had become desensitised to all the footwork he put him through. There were three maids scheduled to work his floor the day of the murder; Isabel Herrera, Justine Tahl, and Marie Hernandez. Though he was tempted to prod them and blindly deduce facts like he would with any of his patients, he could admit that a certain amount of delicacy was required in this instance. This was their only lead. If these women didn't give him the answers he needed, he had nowhere else to go. That was where Cameron came in.

She blinked at him questioningly, leaning her shoulder lightly against the doorframe. He tilted his head back at her. "Time to hit up our stool pigeon for info," he declared easily. "That's P.I. speak, you know."

Cameron's mouth twisted in a faint smirk. "What do you need me for?"

"Ever watch Moonlighting? Get Smart? A female sidekick is key."

She shook her head, but grabbed her keys from the inside of the door and stepped out into the brightly lit corridor without further question. They strode down the hall to the elevator, and he punched the button with his cane.

They were silent on the ride up, and when an elderly couple got into the carriage Cameron offered them a polite smile, and House stared straight ahead. Sarcastic banter came naturally to him, but he was in a dark mood. Cameron seemed to sense that, and kept silent.

Chase's swiped roster also happened to let them know what floor each of the maids were working on that morning, and he figured it wouldn't be too difficult to intercept them. He only hoped they wouldn't look too suspicious haunting the halls in the interim. It wasn't like he needed the added attention.

They emerged on the seventh floor, which was empty except for a lone bellhop sauntering swiftly in their direction. Cameron moved hastily to the side as he neared, refusing to waver in his path, barely sparing them a second glance as he brushed abruptly past them. House didn't understand what a bellhop had to be so smug about, and shot him a dirty look.

"So who are we looking for here?" she finally asked, eyeing him cautiously as they slowed their pace, as if that would somehow make the maid in question emerge from hiding.

House mutely handed her the list he had scrawled on the back of a business card, which happened to bare the insignia of the strip club he and Wilson had visited the day before. Cameron rolled her eyes at the sight, turning it over and scanning the names. "Isabel Herrera?"

"What it says," he said shortly.

Cameron nodded, ignoring the faint hostility in his tone and scanning the surrounding room numbers. Fortunately for them, a door at the end of the hall opened at that moment, and a neatly dressed Hispanic woman appeared, pushing a laundry cart out in front of her, swiping a strand of dark hair distractedly out of her face.

House exchanged a wary glance with Cameron, who started quietly in that direction, with him only a few steps behind.

"Excuse me," Cameron called.

The woman glanced back at them a little blankly, and House considered her, clearing his throat. "Señora, habla inglés?"

She hesitated, then nodded promptly. He supposed the only time guests really spoke to her was to complain, so he could understand her caution. "Yes," she answered slowly. She had an indistinct Spanish accent, but it was only faint and he was satisfied with her ability to understand them.

He could see Cameron staring at him in the corner of her eye; that familiar, poorly hidden curiosity etched onto her features. He knew his team were still slightly befuddled by his ability to speak other languages. It was a skill he liked to flaunt, usually when they least expected it. He wished he could say that was something he was still worried about now.

"We're looking for Isabel Herrera," Cameron pronounced carefully, fixing the woman with her earnest gaze. "Is that you?"

Again, the woman nodded, though she looked reluctant to speak. "Yes. That is me."

Cameron glanced at House again, who gave no indication of interrupting her. "We were wondering if we could ask you something," she started, encouraged by his silence. "We don't want to get you into trouble, but it's really important that you tell us if you know anything."

Isabel's features remained stoic, but she lifted a wary eyebrow. "Okay."

"Did anyone come and talk to you while you were cleaning room 406 a few nights ago? The night the Diagnostics conference first started?"

Isabel eyed her disbelievingly, mouth flattening in a frown. "You expect me to remember something like that?"

A flash of faint impatience crossed Cameron's face, but she maintained her kindly tone. She'd had plenty of practice with that kind of thing, after all. "Did someone ask to borrow your key card, then, maybe?"

Isabel frowned. "We're not allowed to loan our cards to anyone," she dismissed briskly. "It's against hotel policy."

Cameron folded her arms intently, attempting to appeal to her with sincerity. "Like I said, we're not going to tell anyone if you did. We just need to know."

Isabel looked like she wasn't about to budge any time soon, and House decided he had witnessed enough. Maybe softening them up was overrated. There was a reason the bad cop usually won in the end.

"I'm pretty sure it's also against hotel policy to sample clothes in guests' rooms," he observed curtly, slanting an eyebrow and nodding at her with his chin. "But that lipstick stain on your collar, and the fact that your apron is inside out says to me you're not so big on that rule, either."

She immediately narrowed her eyes at his rude assumption, but a faint blush stained her cheeks and betrayed her indignant huff. Cameron shook her head wearily beside him, releasing a resigned sigh.

House eyed the maid pointedly, in no mood to prolong this conversation any longer than necessary. If she wasn't the woman they were looking for, he wanted to move on. They'd wasted enough time already.

"A concierge… asked to borrow my card," she said, at last, squirming uncomfortably, straightening a bottle of detergent on the cart.

House pursed his lips. "Why?" he asked flatly.

She shrugged helplessly. "He said he carried some bags up there a few days ago, and lost his watch. I told him I would have picked it up if it was there, but he wanted to see for himself."

House rolled his eyes at the stupidity of this excuse, and Cameron quickly spoke up. "What was his name?"

Isabel hesitated for a long time, eyes darting between the two of them nervously. When she spotted the steely resolve on House's features, she quickly blurted out the answer. "Max Lafferty. He's young- only nineteen or twenty, just out of high school. I thought it must be valuable to him."

House narrowed his eyes. "And where can we find this poor, innocent young guy?" he asked sarcastically.

She blinked, struggling to summon an answer under the intensity of his stare. "Today… today he has the day off. I think he works at his father's construction site." Her eyes rounded with desperation. "He's not going to get into any trouble for this, is he? You're not going to tell anyone I gave it to him?"

House scoffed and Cameron put a restraining hand on his arm- a bold gesture on her part- to stop him from spurting out something that would invariably frighten the woman. Instead, she said simply, "No. We won't tell. Thank you for your time."

The maid didn't hesitate in lifting her hands to the cart and pushing it rapidly down the hall. Cameron turned pointedly to House before moving off in the opposite direction, back towards the elevators.

House limped beside her, large gait easily keeping up with her smaller one. She glanced at him questioningly. "That name sound familiar to you?"

He shook his head, narrowing his eyes. "No.

He hadn't really expected the man's identity to miraculously provide them with all the answers, but he had been expecting something a little more dramatic. At least his suspicions were finally validated. Someone had definitely broken into his room.

"Where are we going now?" Cameron asked, eyeing him warily as he punched the down button, coming to a halt in front of the elevators.

He gave her a sidelong look. "_We're_ not going anywhere. I can handle it from here."

Cameron laughed shortly. "I really doubt that."

"Well, lucky for both of us, I have never needed your confidence to boost my own," he said spitefully.

The elevator doors juddered open, and Cameron moved swiftly in front of them, blocking his path.

House glared down at her, rolling his eyes. "Do you want me to bodycheck you, Cameron?" he snapped. "Because I'm not against the idea."

She stood her ground, tilting her chin up at him defiantly, bracing her arm against the elevator door. "What are you going to do, House? Find him and then what? You think he's going to just give you the answers you need?"

"I can be very persuasive. As I think we both just witnessed."

"We don't know anything about him. He could be dangerous."

House lifted an eyebrow. "Did you _hear_ her description? Does that sound like a criminal mastermind to you? He's the flunkey, and flunkies always talk."

He lifted his cane, positioning it idly against her side, using the tip to nudge her out of the way. Cameron flinched in surprise, giving him the opportunity to slip past her into the elevator. She jumped in after him, just as the doors slid closed behind her.

"This doesn't follow the rules of one of your stupid detective stories," she snapped.

House scoffed. "Oh, _what_?" he demanded impatiently. "You want me to call in the boys in blue? The ones who really really want to toss me in prison and throw away the key? Thanks, but no thanks. I trust those guys about as far as Chase can throw them. And in case you haven't noticed his spindly little arms, is not far."

She pursed her lips, looking suitably stubborn; a face he knew all too well. He was not in the mood to deal with a righteous Cameron. Not now, not when they were so close.

"Fine," she said quietly, relenting at the flux of frustrated emotions warring in his eyes. "Then… at least let me come with you."

He sighed heavily, completely exasperated by her ability to switch her approach so effortlessly. Why didn't she used the skill against their patients more, instead of against him? He didn't think this concierge was going to serve any serious threat, especially when he had the element of surprise on him, but he didn't particularly want to put Cameron in that kind of situation. It was his mess; not hers.

On the other hand… it was always good to have a wily female as back-up. If Cameron counted as a wily female.

"We're making a detour first," he finally grunted, inwardly wondering if he was making a huge mistake. He punched in the number for Wilson's floor, tapping his cane darkly against his sneaker. "We need to borrow a car."

0000000000000000000

"Hey, Sara."

Sara glanced up as Archie called to her from the AV lab. "I've got something for you," he explained evenly.

She folded over the file in her hands, propping it under her elbow and striding into the room. Blue light illuminated Archie's face as he turned in his chair to regard her, a thoughtful expression tugging at his features.

"What's up?" she asked curiously, slowly coming to a halt behind his chair, glancing at the computer monitor over his shoulder.

Archie swivelled around again, tapping a few keys on his computer, gesturing up at the large projection screen on the wall in front of them. "I've been going over the security tapes you guys left me from the Four Seasons."

"The ones that were a bust?" Sara replied unhappily.

He nodded, swiftly fiddling with the mouse. "Right. Well, turns out they might not be such a bust. The camera positioning made it nearly impossible to see any comings and goings down the hall, let alone the doctor's room, and I couldn't find anything during the time of the murder. But I did find something interesting the morning after."

Sara frowned, intrigued by this cryptic remark, bending closer. He nodded at the monitor, bringing up the relevant section of the tape, pointing to a tiny portion of the screen left unconcealed by the wall. "I managed to enhance a partial image. Check out the top left corner of the screen."

Sara obliged, leaning forward, squinting carefully. She blinked in surprise when she glimpsed what he was referring to. "Is that… a boot?"

Archie nodded in grim satisfaction, tracking the tape forward a few seconds. "And he gets closer."

He manoeuvred over the tiny image, zooming in and enhancing it for Sara to see. "That camera is mounted right near Dr. House's door. This guy is going into his room."

Sara frowned at the grainy facial image Archie had stilled, taking in the ramrod straight posture of the red clothed figure with immense concentration. "Is that a concierge uniform?"

"I think so," Archie replied, nodding.

Sara clenched the file in her hand a little tighter, feeling her heartbeat quicken involuntarily in her chest. "Can I get a print out of that, Arch?"

He smiled. "Sure."

"Thanks." She patted him on the back, excitement steadily building. "Nice going."

She wasn't entirely sure, but she thought Archie might have just broken the case. House would have been at the conference that morning; there was certainly no reason for a concierge to go back into his room after he had checked in. And not when he was unattended by the guest in question.

The Rohypnol could have been planted. There was no denying that. There had just been no other prior evidence backing it up until now.

She needed to fax this image over to the Four Seasons Hotel straight away.

Because the evidence was finally starting to point in House's favour.

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	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: **See chapter one.

**Accused  
Chapter fourteen **

"Did you tell Wilson where we were going?"

House glanced at Cameron in the corner of his eye as he navigated his way through Vegas traffic in Wilson's rental. He squinted disbelievingly, rapidly changing lanes as they neared an exit. "Are you kidding?"

Cameron frowned at his response, resting her arm along the window frame. "Why not?"

"Because he would have tried to _stop_ me."

Cameron swivelled her head. "_I_ tried to stop you," she pointed out.

"Yeah," he snorted shortly. "And Wilson would have actually _succeeded_."

She rolled her eyes, mildly exasperated by his ability to dismiss her, though she had to admit, he was probably right about that. She glanced out the side window at the passing traffic, glinting in the impossibly bright Nevada sunshine.

Once they had left the Strip, the number of casinos had started to noticeably dwindle, and she could see the sprawl of suburbia stretching across the dry landscape ahead. She found it strange that people could exist in such normality when the garish, seedy lights of Vegas lit the skyline at night. It was like having two different worlds staring into each other over a single, tenuous, invisible line. She knew which side of the line she preferred.

House turned onto a residential street, and she soon spotted a housing development up ahead, surrounded by construction crew vehicles and heavy machinery.

It hadn't been difficult to locate the current whereabouts of Lafferty Constructions, though Cameron only hoped the concierge they were looking for was actually there, as the maid had claimed. Otherwise they had wasted a lot of valuable time.

The surrounding land was still flat and dusty this far on the edge of town, stretching limitlessly into the distance. The frames of several neighbouring homes had been put up, and some crude roads constructed, but other than that, it was void of life, and with the sun beating down so mercilessly, reminded her of the barren stretches of desert surrounding them on all sides.

She didn't know why that made her feel so claustrophobic.

"So," House started evenly, pulling the car to a halt behind a rusty pick up truck, a safe distance from the construction site, but not terribly far to walk. "Game plan."

He cut the engine, turning to look at her steadily. The confined space between them was causing her a whole other form of claustrophobia, and made it momentarily difficult for her to focus. She breathed in.

"Okay…"

"I'll handle the talking part this time," he declared unequivocally. "You just stand by and bat your eyelashes."

Cameron frowned, narrowing her eyes as he climbed out of the driver's seat.

"That's it?" she asked, sliding out of the car after him. She held her door in place, eyeing him defensively over the roof of the vehicle. "You just expect me to stand by and look pretty?"

House stared back at her. "You're the one who tagged along on my little field trip, not the other way around," he reminded her. He circled the front of the car, stepping up onto the curb. "And never underestimate the power of the female form, Cameron," he added, giving her his standard sleazy once-over. "Your mother should have taught you that one, what with your assets and all."

She rolled her eyes, slamming her door briskly and letting her heels crunch on the gravel as she followed him across the dusty block.

A middle aged man in a yellow hardhat stood near a cement mixer, head bent slightly to protect his eyes from the afternoon sun, eyes cast down on a clipboard in his hands. There weren't many workers around, and she had to assume they were nearly finished for the day.

House started towards him, and Cameron shoved her hands in the pockets of her jacket, stepping over loose stones as she struggled to keep up with him.

"Hi there," House called, causing the man to turn around.

He frowned, gaze sweeping them slowly, tucking a pen vaguely behind one ear. "Hi," he responded slowly. "Can I do something for you?"

House pursed his lips. "As a matter of fact…"

The base of his cane was covered in a thin layer of dirt and dust, sinking slightly into the earth as he tapped it at his side. She wondered if it was a nervous gesture, or if he just did it out of habit. She suspected it was the latter. She couldn't imagine House being nervous over anything.

He nodded at the man with his chin, elaborating swiftly. "I'm guessing you're the big cho. Lafferty, right?"

Lafferty senior nodded slowly. "That's right. What can I do for you folks? You two looking to buy? It doesn't look like much now, but I can get one of the guys to show you around if you want."

A brief, depreciating smirk touched House's lips as he glanced back at Cameron, and realised this guy assumed they were married. "Uh, no, thanks. We were looking for your kid."

Lafferty's eyebrows rose. "Max?"

House pursed his lips in silent acknowledgement. "Yeah. We heard he was working here. He around?"

Lafferty hesitated a moment, eyebrows furrowing. "He… in some kind of trouble?"

It was difficult to miss the apprehension in his voice, and it seemed somewhat clear to her this wasn't the first time mysterious strangers had arrived seeking out his son. House gave him an eerily convincing, easy-going smile, gesturing idly between himself and Cameron with the handle of his cane. "We look like we're about to bust anybody's chops over something?" he asked, sounding vaguely amused at the concept. "We were just looking for someone from the hotel. We wanted his help on it."

Lafferty removed the pen from his ear, sliding it through his thumb and forefinger. "Oh," he said, chuckling slightly and nodding his head. He pointed around the side of the house, and she could hear the rhythmic echo of hammering as framework was fixed into place. "He should be around there."

"Thanks," House said, starting off in that direction.

Cameron offered the man a polite smile before she darted quickly to catch up to him. She studied his gruff profile as she fell into step beside him. "For someone so adverse to lying, you sure are good at doing it," she noted offhandedly.

House gave her a surprisingly withering look. "It became necessary," he said curtly.

She went quiet, maintaining her silence as they came up behind two workers, both clad in sweaty wife beaters and grimy trousers. She knew House was already feeling the tension of the moment, and decided adding to it probably wasn't helping.

"So," House called flatly, letting his voice travel loudly over both of them. "Which one of you is the rat?"

Both men turned around, obviously oblivious to any approach, staring down at them from the slightly elevated concrete platform.

One looked to be in his mid to late twenties, with broad, muscular arms and day-old stubble covering his chiselled features. His eyes drifted over Cameron, and he shot her a lopsided smirk.

She folded her arms over her chest, unconsciously fixing herself by House's side. She didn't like that look. It was something she had strived to rid herself of for most of her young adult life.

House seemed completely oblivious to the other man, gaze riveted firmly on the younger of the two, whose dark eyes flashed for the tiniest moment with unmistakable dread.

House nodded at him darkly, catching this reaction. "Yeah. My money's on you."

His companion lifted his eyebrows at House's dark, unwavering glare, hooking his hammer over the tool belt around his waist. "I think I'm about finished here," he announced without preamble, clearly uninterested in being drawn into a confrontation. He jumped down from the ledge, landing close by Cameron, offering her another suggestive leer.

House swiftly lifted his cane, holding it flatly in front of her. "Get a hooker. Trust me, they're much easier to maintain."

The man snickered, but held up his hands in a sign of deference, turning to the front of the house.

House returned his attention to Max Lafferty, who had also climbed onto the ground, wavering uneasily in front of them.

"You know who I am?" House asked brusquely, lowering the cane back to his side.

Max hesitated, glancing around. He probably realised his chances of running, and nodded slowly. "Yeah."

"Good." House stepped closer, and there was no denying the menace in his stance. Cameron tensed. She could see the build-up of anger and frustration roiling off his stiff form, and watched him uneasily. She had seen him truly angry only a handful of times, and she glanced down, taking in the way his hand was contorted tightly around the handle of his cane.

This was definitely one of them.

"I think we can skip past all those pesky pleasantries and get straight down to the truth then," House growled. "I'm a big fan of the truth. How about you?"

Max shifted, and his discomfort was plain. He was muscular for his size and age, but at this moment, House was an imposing presence. She didn't think his cane would hinder him for a second.

"Tell me who paid you to break into my room."

Max paused for a noticeable moment, and Cameron eyed him uncertainly, waiting for him to give into House's demands. He surprised her when he straightened, and his eyes narrowed into slits. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about, man."

Something in House snapped. He looked like he had just been waiting for the opportunity to unleash some of his frustration. He clenched his cane, swinging it up and bringing it roughly against Max's chest, using it to slam him against the wall behind them.

Cameron jumped. "_House_--!" she exclaimed in shock.

House ignored her, glaring unflinchingly down at Max as he pressed his cane into the curve of his neck. The force was so strong it made his face redden, and his breathing immediately rasp.

"See where my cane is right now? That's your larynx. It's responsible for all those important things like talking and breathing." He glared down at him, speaking in a deathly calm tone. "Now if I put any more pressure there right now, it will obstruct your blood flow, which will eventually cause a haemorrhage in your brain. You don't want that, do you?"

It had the desired effect on Max. He lifted his hand, the one unpinned by House's cane, and gasped hoarsely. "_Okay_! Okay, I'll tell you!"

House lowered the cane almost immediately, stepping back and staring at him with an impossible coldness. Max bent over slightly, catching his breath, fingering his bruised neck.

Cameron swallowed, and found herself just the slightest bit scared of House in that moment. Not _of_ him, exactly, but of what he might do. She had never witnessed him quite so threatening.

"Give me the name," House uttered lowly.

Max coughed, slowly lifting his head. He leant back against the wall as he regained his composure, but when he spoke, his voice was surprisingly clear.

"You're not going to like it."

"Try me," House grunted.

Max opened his mouth to speak. And that was when all hell broke loose.

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Max Lafferty.

Now that she had the name of the man who had at least partially played his part in framing House, she was determined to uncover the truth once and for all.

She stood in an empty, mutely lit lab, typing his name into the database, and waiting for some kind of probable result.

She wasn't disappointed.

Max Lafferty had a sealed juvenile record, but he also had two prior offences since turning eighteen- drug possession, and drug trafficking.

She narrowed her eyes, bending intently over the screen and stopping short when she scanned the rest of the report.

His suppliers were men affiliated with the drug dealers who first gave them House's description for purchasing Rohypnol. She laughed disbelievingly, a low, short, humourless sound. Unbelievable. House _was_ telling the truth. She gathered up her papers and shut off the computer, mulling over the implications of this newfound information as she turned for the door.

She stopped inches before colliding with Grissom, who stood silently in the way.

Sara flinched, unable to help the abrupt jolt in her chest at his sudden proximity. She quickly recovered herself, lowering the papers to her side.

"What have you got?" he asked evenly, blue eyes tracing her slowly.

She swallowed, somewhat reluctant to share her discovery. All of her findings thus far could still be attributed to a string of unfortunate coincidences. She knew they usually went on less, but if she was following nothing but a hunch here, she didn't want to be wrong. She didn't want to fix her conviction on House's innocence to have the evidence contradict her. Not again.

Not if that meant Grissom would have proven her wrong twice.

"Nothing," she said slowly, managing to keep her voice light and even. She didn't want to think about the ease with which she lied to Grissom. She preferred not to think about the fact that it was a skill she had crafted far too well. "I just want to go back to the hotel one more time," she added, shrugging loosely. "Just for some recon."

Grissom stared at her, pursing his lips almost imperceptibly. There was a fissure of tension in the air, a slight, almost unnoticeable pause in his response, and in that moment she knew he was aware that she was lying. And she also knew he couldn't call her on it. It wasn't as if she was doing anything wrong. She was going back to the scene, just not for the reasons he assumed.

"Okay," he said quietly, at last, staring at her for a lengthy moment. "Call if you need any back-up."

She forced a thin, reassuring smile, brushing past his shoulder, feeling the faint spark of electricity that passed between them as she did. "I will."

She started down the hall directly for the locker room, feeling his gaze on her back the entire time. She mentally counted every step to stop herself from turning back.

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The hotel was still bustling with members of the conference, and news of the murder seemed to have already dwindled to old gossip, trading preference with more pressing, immediate matters, like forging lasting business contacts. Guests barely paid her any attention as she passed through the lobby, despite the CSI badge clipped prominently to her jacket. Obviously they had grown accustomed to the sight of the authorities.

She passed a pair of men chatting about their mutual speciality, shaking her head as she started for the elevators. She wanted to check out House's room one last time, check for trace evidence of Max Lafferty's presence; something, anything she or Greg might have missed.

She spotted a familiar face through the thinning crow, and paused, debating within for a split second herself before moving to intercept him.

"Dr. Wilson?"

The earnest young doctor glanced at her, features contorting with impatience for a moment before transforming into an expression of mild politeness. His ability to project such an easy professional mask was slightly interesting to her, considering his best friend.

"I thought you were done questioning us for now," he said, unable to conceal the faint look of resentment in his expression as she took the last remaining steps toward him and he regarded her carefully. "And I have a sneaking suspicion its considered unethical for you to speak to us without an attorney present."

Sara sighed deeply, in no mood to deal with his defensiveness. "I might have found evidence that clears your friend," she said abruptly. "But I need to see his room again first."

Wilson frowned, and she noticed the distracted way his gaze darted over her shoulder. "He's not there."

She folded her arms impatiently. "Well where is he?"

Wilson shifted, and when he glanced back at her, she saw some of the fight drain from his posture. He glimpsed some of the sincerity in her eyes and seemed to come to an inner decision. "I don't know where he is," he admitted levelly. "My car keys are gone, and I haven't seen him all morning."

Sara furrowed her brow, slightly apprehensive at this revelation. "Where would he go?"

"I… have no idea," Wilson said unhappily.

Sara tilted an eyebrow, cocking out a hip. She fixed him with a pointed stare, wondering if House had decided to skip town. That did not bode well for him, innocent or not. "Really?"

He sighed, closing his eyes. "I knew I was going to be the one to get into trouble for this," he muttered lowly. He rubbed a hand over his temples. "Okay, look. We've been… conducting our own investigation," he admitted reluctantly.

Sara blinked at him. "Your own investigation?"

"Yes," he said tightly. "And if you weren't so blinded by House's apparent guilt, you probably would have figured out as much as we have by now."

Sara rolled her eyes. "And in 'we' you mean you, House, Dr. Cameron and Dr. Chase?" she prompted sardonically. "Just for clarification."

Wilson scowled. "Yes."

She sighed at their recklessness, though on some level, she could understand their motivation. If she, or someone she loved, was being accused of murder, she wouldn't be willing to merely stand by and watch it happen.

"And you think House is out now, pursuing one of your leads?"

Wilson hesitated, folding his arms, tapping a finger against his forearm. "Yes," he admitted.

Sara ran a hand through her hair, all too aware of the danger House could have just stepped into. "And you really have no idea where that would be?"

"Last time I spoke to him, he was getting ready to question the maids who had access to his room," he explained. "To see if one of them had anything to do with the Rohypnol planted in there."

"We know who planted the Rohypnol in his room," Sara said, glancing around the interior of the hotel with newfound purpose. "A hotel concierge."

Wilson's eyebrows drew together in surprise, and she stared at him intently. "Is he the only one missing?"

Wilson paused, taking a noticeable moment before responding. "No…" he said carefully. "Cameron… hasn't turned up, either."

She quirked an eyebrow, the unspoken implication clear in the air. She didn't acknowledge it though, eyeing him pointedly instead. "Have you checked your messages?"

Wilson opened his mouth, closed it, then quickly scrambled for his cell phone. "Uh… no."

He seemed slightly sheepish, and after the riot act he had just read her, she felt a minor burst of satisfaction at his expense. It was short-lived. He lifted his cell to his ear after punching a few buttons, and listened silently. After a moment, he closed his eyes, returning it limply to his side. "Cameron said they're… on their way to a construction site. A company called Lafferty and Co. She left the message over an hour ago."

Sara heaved a deep sigh, tightening her hold on the cuff of her jacket. "_Great_. You do realise both of them could be heading into some serious danger, don't you?"

She turned for the door, and Wilson stalked rapidly after her. "I'm coming with you."

She scoffed. "Oh, I don't think so."

"Hey," he said flatly. "You can take me with you, or I can call a taxi and follow you. You've got the gun, so personally I'd prefer the former, but hey, it's up to you."

Sara stared at him, taking in the steely resolve in his face, and closed her eyes in exasperation. She had no doubt he would make good on his threat, and she wasn't about to have a dead cancer specialist on her conscience. "_Fine_," she snapped shortly. "But do not even _think_ of trying anything stupid."

"Oh, trust me," he said, following her swiftly for the doors. "It's not high on my list."

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	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer:** See chapter one.  
**Author's Note:** Er, so I told you I would update! It's been what, six months? Or longer, but I'm too scared to look. If you would like to hurt me… well, you can't, so just think nasty thoughts. 

Number one, I haven't written this for a long time, so forgive me if I'm out of practice and it shows. I also haven't written CSI properly in a long time, so I apologise if those characterisations seem inconsistent. And number two, this chapter feels somewhat overdramatic to me, but I couldn't help it. The plot was always leading there but I'm not sure it turned out the way I originally envisioned. I know, I know, that's entirely my own fault. Curse my crossover muses to hell!

**Accused  
Chapter fifteen**

There were a few times in Gregory House's life he had been aware of his life flashing before his eyes.

The memory of sweating and clenching and crying from the sheer agony of his leg during the infarction was a memory that had failed to diminish over time. The chronic pain he was forced to endure on a daily basis was certainly an unpleasant enough reminder.

The sound of a gun going off was a different kind of mortal terror. He could feel the sudden gravity of the moment consume him, the metallic smell invade his nostrils.

He jerked to the side, and Cameron nearly jumped out of her skin beside him as a loud, irritated female voice rang out through the sudden, piercing silence.

"Good to know I could actually trust you on this, you stupid bastard."

Max's mouth opened and closed wordlessly, and the sight of a gun cowed him considerably more than the man brandishing his cane. House twisted around, features tightening with tension. His first thought was that the gun had been shot into the air. His brief feeling of relief was quickly banished when he realised they were in _deep_ trouble.

"Who the _hell_ are you?"

It was the first thing out of his mouth, and he could see Cameron staring at him like he was insane. Obviously she was afraid he was going to provoke the nice lady with the gun.

She was probably right to be scared.

Contrary to his team's general opinion, he did actually remember the faces of their patients. He was a perceptive person, and minute details were what stuck in his mind. Pearl earrings buffed to shine with some toxic home remedy. Nicotine stained fingers, badly dyed hair, blouses buttoned too low in the vain hope of attracting some poor susceptible male when a wedding ring shone on the left hand. All of it was relevant. Anything could hold the key to some unforeseen diagnosis.

This woman looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't immediately place her. He thought the person framing him for murder should at _least_ be someone he recognised. Anything else was just way too anti-climatic. He deserved that much.

The woman snorted, stepping forward, and his ignorance obviously just pissed her off. Cameron tensed noticeably, inching back a fraction, and he reminded himself that he wasn't the only one in potential mortal jeopardy here.

"Of course you don't even know. Dr. Greg House, too caught up in his own massive ego to even contemplate the lowly people around him."

"To be _fair_, if I call you lowly now, you'll probably just shoot me."

She scoffed, shifting the gun in her grasp. She actually looked quite menacing with it, coiffed blonde hair swirling around her face like some sinister portrait of Medusa.

"You're Loretta Michaels," Cameron spoke up behind him, features carefully blank. She glanced at House. "She was the one who came here with Dr. Goodard."

Realisation kicked in, and he narrowed his eyes.

"Well. You sure went to a lot of trouble considering I don't even know you."

Loretta rolled her eyes, knuckles tightening slightly. He noticed, and it made him wary. "You were convenient," she spat. "Do you really think it was such a stretch of the imagination for people to believe you were capable of murder? You hated Paul. He mentioned it more than once. He said you were jealous of his accomplishments."

"Gee, really singing your praises for the guy considering you _murdered_ him."

"You're justifying framing an innocent man?" Cameron added disbelievingly.

Loretta glared at her. "You really think I give a damn what you think? Everyone would be glad to get rid of someone like him. He's an embarrassment to the medical profession!"

"He's not a killer."

House pursed his lips, swiftly drawing her attention back to him. While Cameron's attempts to defend him were admirable, they wouldn't do much good if they got her shot. "If it turns out this is because of some stupid, cliché reason like the two of you were having an affair and he jilted you, I'm going to be really pissed off."

Her features gave a telltale flush, and House snorted. "Oh _goody_. I'm going to jail over a lover's _spat_."

Her fingers wound around the weapon again, and this time her knuckles were almost white. "I don't have to explain myself to you," she said lowly. He saw the cold rage in her eyes, the bitter, inexplicable hatred, and realised appealing to her rational side probably wasn't going to help anything.

"No," he answered, through gritted teeth. "Ruining my life requires no explanation whatsoever."

He wondered where the hell the other construction crewmen were. No one had come running at the sound of a gunshot, and if they weren't concerned about him and Cameron, he thought they would at least be concerned about the foreman's son. The sky was starting to get hazy with mid-afternoon light, and he assumed they had gone home for the day.

He could be sarcastic and angry all he wanted, but that was still no defence against a gun.

His eyes ticked in Cameron's direction, and he realised she was glancing carefully back at him. Probably wondering what the hell they were going to do. Tension curled around the four of them, and Loretta jerked the gun at Max. He had inched back a few steps, slipping along the wall as if it would somehow go unnoticed. He had been silent throughout their exchange, and House wasn't sure if it was because his throat was still sore, or if he was as terrified of Loretta as they were. Her movements were stiff and awkward, and he could tell that despite her anger, she was inexperienced with the weapon. It failed to give him much hope.

"Stop it. Stop moving. You're in this just as deep as I am."

Max flinched, but said nothing. He obviously didn't want to provoke her. House thought that was probably smart.

"What are you going to do?" Cameron asked carefully. Her tone was low and even, the way she spoke to panicked patients when they needed soothing, but he could hear the underlying fear.

Loretta pursed her lips. He could see the indecision warring on her face, but the lengths she had gone to already to protect herself and make him look guilty did nothing to comfort him. She had obviously planned this. Messily, but it was the kind of cold calculating behaviour that did not come from someone all that interested in compassion.

He decided to go for broke. If nothing else, he knew she was a self-preservationist. "You really want two more murder charges on your head on top of this? They have the death penalty in Nevada, right?"

She didn't offer a reaction, but he saw her lower lip tremble. Just enough that someone with his scrutinising gaze could notice it.

He thought he might have struck a nerve, and then there was another shout. This time, they all jumped.

"Las Vegas Police! Don't move!"

House cast his eyes over Loretta's shoulder, and spotted the formidable figure of Sara Side with her weapon drawn fiercely on the woman. A one-woman rescue squad wasn't exactly what he had been counting on, but he supposed it was better than nothing.

Then Wilson's slightly drawn features appeared behind her, and he had to roll his eyes at his friend's immense stupidity.

He was definitely going to get himself killed.

"Put your hands in the air. Right now. Back-up is on the way."

Loretta stilled, twitching noticeably, but did not lower the gun. Sara was immovable, and he sure as hell hoped she wasn't lying.

"I mean it!" she shouted. "Put it down."

Loretta's cold blue eyes fixed on House, and Cameron automatically reached out to grab his arm. He could feel the tension and fear running through her as her fingers dug almost painfully into his skin, and he was struck by the utter _absurdity_ of the situation.

Cuddy. He could blame Cuddy for this. _This_ was why he never left Princeton.

"I'm not going anywhere. I didn't do anything wrong."

House could tell that Sara knew exactly what was going on, which wasn't as comforting as it might have been an hour ago. She went along with the charade anyway, voice level and low. "You're upset. I get that. Hurting someone isn't going to help you bring Paul back."

"He killed him," Loretta insisted, voice cracking under the strain.

"And you have to let me take him into custody, or he can't get the punishment he deserves."

Loretta turned, just as Sara chanced a step forward. Her movement caught Loretta off guard. The gun in her hand shuddered and a loud crack filled the air, bouncing off the walls of the half-finished construction site.

Cameron's grip on his arm was deathly-tight by now, and he barely had a chance to blink before Sara fell back on the ground, dust kicking up around her. Another gun went off in response, and Loretta stumbled back, faltering in place before her gun slid from her fingers.

Everything was quiet. Everything was still.

At least one of them was dead.

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"Where's Sara?" Greg asked, peering into Grissom's office.

Grissom paused, looking up from the entomology textbook he was studying, feeling a frown crease his brow. "You're sure she's not here?"

Greg shook his head, wandering further into the room, letting his hands fall to the back of the visitor's chair. "No. I tried calling her, but it went straight to voicemail. Where did she go?"

"She said she was going back to the hotel."

Greg lifted an eyebrow, silently saying what Grissom wasn't - that she obviously still believed in House's innocence. He had to admit that her dedication to her beliefs was admirable, even when it appeared to interfere with her judgement. He felt he sometimes lacked the same assurance.

He had known she was lying when he questioned her before, had felt it tingle warningly down his spine, but said nothing. Things were strained enough as it was. Now the fact that she wasn't back yet was deeply worrying. Even if she was still collecting evidence, which he found highly unlikely, she would have answered her phone.

A fissure of concern went through him, and he tried to ignore it. There were times when the risks of their job were only all too real to him, but most of the time he was so preoccupied with the science, the quest for truth, that the gritty, unpleasant realities didn't occur to him.

He was only reminded of them when something horrible happened.

Greg was watching him quietly, obviously sensing what he was thinking. He opened his mouth, no doubt to offer something reassuring, when the phone on Grissom's desk started to ring. He frowned, reaching over to answer it, grip strangely tense. "Grissom."

"Yeah, you really need to learn to get your reigns on Sara, you know that?" Brass's brisk, strained voice sounded back at him, and the panic welled up all over again.

"What's going on?"

"She called in for back-up a few minutes ago - a construction site out in Henderson. They're heading out now. But if I know Sara--"

"She's already out there," he finished, blood running cold.

Brass was grim. "Yeah. I don't know what she found, but I get the feeling it's not good."

He looked up at Greg, who was staring at him wide-eyed. "Tell me where she is, Jim."

"Gil --"

He almost didn't recognise the cold anger in his voice. "_Jim_."

"Yeah. Okay. I'll tell you."

His fingers tightened around the phone, and he was already on his feet.

If anything happened to Sara because he hadn't believed her, he would never forgive himself.

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"Oh my God."

Cameron had her hand over her mouth, and both men were shocked into silence. Behind them, Max ran.

None of them tried to stop him.

It took a full five seconds for their medical training to kick in. Wilson dropped down on his knees beside Sara, and Cameron gingerly bent over Loretta's fallen form. She avoided the discarded gun, reaching for the pulse point on her neck.

House stood still, gripping his cane tightly.

Everything had happened so quickly he could barely process it, but Wilson knew that as she went down, Sara had reflexively shot Loretta. He had no idea what kind of training people in her profession had, but he assumed that was the standard response. His hands curled over her stomach, and he realised that despite her protective CSI vest, the bullet had penetrated her side. Blood was slowly seeping out on his hands, and on the ground, turning a rusty, dull colour in the dirt.

Sara was barely conscious, eyes flickering unsteadily. She had indeed called for back-up on the ride over, but there was no telling how long it would take to arrive. She needed medical attention now.

She tried to murmur something, and he bent closer, straining to hear. He couldn't tell if she was trying to relay a message to a loved one, or an apology, or any number of things people whispered, when they thought they were going to die.

He wouldn't let her. Neither would House, and neither would Cameron.

She wasn't going to die.

"She's dead," Cameron announced unsteadily, pulling him out his messy thoughts long enough to stare at her. He nodded shortly when he realised she was referring to Loretta. It felt inhumane to discard the importance of a human life like that, but he couldn't summon the energy to care. That woman had murdered a man and pinned it on House before putting all of their lives in danger. And now another person could die.

House stepped forward long enough to kick aside the gun. He didn't look like he cared where it went.

"We need to get her into the car," Wilson said swiftly.

House glanced behind them, saw the nondescript Tahoe parked just in front of the rental car. He jerked his head at Wilson. "Take her Tahoe. It's bigger and faster."

"Cameron, get her keys."

Cameron bent down, quickly retrieving the keys from her vest pocket. She tossed them to House, who started speed-limping in the direction of the car, and Wilson carefully slid his arms under Sara's limp, slender body. Once he had her in his arms he carried her for the car as quickly as he could go with her additional weight, and Cameron raced ahead of him, opening the backdoor and climbing in. She flicked the hair out of her eyes, bracing herself on her knees, holding her hands out quickly. Between them, they managed to awkwardly wrestle her onto the backseat, and Wilson slammed the door shut behind him.

"Go!"

House immediately slammed on the accelerator, and they swerved slightly as they turned out onto the street.

As fast as they could go.

Cameron had torn off her jacket, and was already holding it against Sara's wound. Sara had lost consciousness by now, which was not a good sign at all. Cameron felt her head bump against the roof of the car as House took another corner, and the sting was sharp. She braced her spare hand awkwardly against the backseat, struggling to keep the pressure.

She couldn't believe what had happened back there, and how close they had come to dying. Now this woman they barely knew might die, all because she was trying to help them.

The universe sure had a grisly sense of humour.

She glanced at the back of House's head, and then at Wilson across from her, who was staring down at Sara grimly, with his features drawn. She could hear something heavy sliding around in the trunk behind them, and the floor of the Tahoe was cluttered with odds and ends she only assumed were crime scene investigation tools.

She adjusted her jacket against Sara's stomach, and her eyes darted down when she realised the wound was starting to bleed out more strongly than before. "She's haemorrhaging!"

House turned his head, and she could feel his foot press down even harder on the accelerator. Wilson swore.

"Where the hell is the hospital around here?" House demanded.

Wilson shifted as House swerved onto the highway. "Desert Palms," he said quickly, pointing at an approaching sign. "Turn there."

Her abruptly pulled into the turning lane, and the scenery outside whizzed by. Cameron barely had time to consider their own impending death by collision when the brakes squealed, and they drew to a halt in front of the ER.

Wilson threw his door open, and an orderly who happened to be standing outside at that moment rushed over when he saw them.

"She has a gunshot wound to her lower abdomen," Wilson said abruptly.

"She's going into shock," Cameron added, her knees supporting Sara's head. She kept her jacket pressed firmly to the wound.

The orderly blinked at them for a split-second, then seemed to accept that they knew what they were talking about. "Okay, we're gonna need a gurney."

He called to someone behind him, and the doors to the ER immediately flew open, revealing two other men pushing an empty gurney. They pulled Sara carefully out of the vehicle, strapping her down.

"What the hell are you doing, were you born yesterday?" House barked at one of the men, as he attempted to remove Cameron's jacket.

She released a shaky breath as they finally rolled Sara into the hospital, a strand of hair clinging to her forehead. House stopped next to her, and Wilson followed the gurney inside.

"You okay?" House asked gruffly, keeping his gaze straight ahead.

She drew in another, careful breath in an attempt to slow her heartbeat, nodding slowly and surprised to hear him ask. "Yeah." She knew better than to return the question, but then he briefly, softly patted her arm, and it meant more than words ever could.

He returned to the driver's side of the vehicle, ostensibly to move the car, and she hoped that this was it. She hoped that it was finally over.

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End file.
